


To Kingdom Come

by myrmidryad



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Old Kingdom Fusion, Ancelstierre (Old Kingdom), Camping, Cosette And Enjolras Are Siblings, Cultural Differences, Fantine Lives, Grantaire And Marius Are Siblings, I managed to squeeze in basically all the characters, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Language Barrier, M/M, POV Multiple, Past Violence, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Refugees, matrilineal society
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:15:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 84,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24027238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrmidryad/pseuds/myrmidryad
Summary: “There are many more of us south of the Wall,” Feuilly told him, not bothering to hide his amusement as Grantaire absorbed the sight of a thousand tents set up in wobbly lines and irregularly-shaped clumps around small clearings where cook fires had been laid. “We did want to come north as soon as possible. We are looking for people we know…”“Everyone is looking for someone,” Joly said tiredly. “Most of them, anyway.”Grantaire is a Finonn Traveller who saves the lives of three Southerling refugees. With nowhere else to go, he stays in their camp for a while, and grows close to Enjolras and Combeferre, two Southerlings who have a complicated history of their own.
Relationships: Combeferre/Enjolras (Les Misérables), Combeferre/Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Combeferre/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 76
Kudos: 132
Collections: Les Mis Big Bang: Quarantine Edition





	1. Grantaire

**Author's Note:**

> I started this literally years ago, and joined this Big Bang to force myself to finally finish it. And I finally did!
> 
> This was partially inspired by the video [What They Took With Them](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xS-Q2sgNjl8), which is a poem performed by several celebrities you may have seen before, and I highly recommend watching it if you haven't.
> 
> If you know nothing about the Old Kingdom series by Garth Nix, a quick explanation: Ancelstierre is basically the UK, and at its northern border is a Wall, and across the Wall is the Old Kingdom. If you know Stardust, it's like that. In the Old Kingdom, magic is real and the dead can be forced to rise by necromancers. Evil forces in this kingdom started a civil war in the Southerling States on the Ancelstierren side of the Wall in order to force a colossal number of refugees north to said Wall in order to be massacred in one event that would give an evil power enough of a boost to break free of its chains and destroy the world. Classic villainy. 
> 
> I essentially wondered what it would be like for those Southerling refugees once they started making homes and lives for themselves in the Old Kingdom, which isn't just a very different country to the ones they left behind, but an entirely different world. I've created their culture and the culture of the Travellers in the Old Kingdom from basically nothing, so none of those details are canon in any sense. But I sure had fun making it all up! Don't ask me how the whole third gender thing works with French grammar, just go with it. It's fantasy, baby!
> 
> I didn't ever expect to be posting this during a global pandemic, so I know everyone's feeling that right now, but if you have any money to spare, please consider [donating to the UNHCR](https://donate.unhcr.org/general/~my-donation) or other agencies that support refugees.

Grantaire watched the play of light on the water, wishing for the hundredth time that he hadn’t left the band he’d been with, and imagining where he would be if he hadn’t. Not fishing, that was for sure. As far as hunting went, Grantaire was average at best. If it hadn’t been for the Charter, he probably would have starved. Not that it seemed to be helping him now. He’d spelled his hook to shine and glitter to attract fish, but he’d been here for an hour and still hadn’t had so much as a tug on the line.

He should move to a different part of the river. The thought was there, but acting on it was another matter entirely. It was so hard to care. It was hard to do anything but sit and watch the light on the Ratterlin.

Only when it grew dark did he pull his line in and get his sleeping roll out, moving sluggishly, ignoring the ache of emptiness in his stomach. It was hardly the first time he’d gone to bed hungry. It made casting marks of warning and protection harder, but he was practiced at it, and he fell asleep as soon as he pulled the cover up over his shoulders.

In the end, it wasn’t his marks that woke him, but his own wary ears. He woke silently and listened in the dark, trying to pick out any sounds beyond the rush of the Ratterlin nearby, and the constant background sounds of the forest at night; twigs snapping, leaves rustling, movement in the trees and the undergrowth.

There – shouts.

Grantaire sat up at the same time as his warning mark let out a burst of intense heat, like a sudden lick of flame. He reacted at once, sliding out of his roll and wrapping it up tight, tying it into a sausage that could be tied to his pack.

The shouts were getting nearer, and although Grantaire couldn’t hear what they were saying, he could hear the fear as he slung his pack over his shoulders. And then the wind picked up, and the wariness he’d been keeping a lid on burst into fright. The smell of rot and decay was unmistakeable, and Grantaire was in the river almost before he realised it, up to his waist in the freezing water that would protect him from anything Dead.

The shouting was louder, panicked, and Grantaire heard one of them – a man, by the sounds of it – scream something that sounded like hey-day-noo.

“Ay-day-noo!” Closer now, and the smell was so bad, and the river wasn’t swollen with storm water, it wasn’t, but Grantaire still held his breath, trembling. “Ay-day-noo! Help us! Help us!”

“Here,” Grantaire whispered, and swallowed, tried again. “Here!” Deep breath, louder. “Here! To me! To the river! Come to the river! Follow my voice!”

“Where are you?” the man in the woods screamed.

“Follow my voice!” Grantaire shouted back. “To the river! Get to the river! To me!” And there, he saw movement in the darkness, and heard hurried feet thudding against the ground. “Keep coming! You’re close, watch the bank!” The movement solidified, and three men burst from the trees, slipped on the bank, and one of them fell. He’d been carrying the man in the middle, sharing the weight with the man on the end, and Grantaire leapt forward with a shout as the man in the middle fell to the ground and cried out in pain. “Get in the water! Get in, get in!” He and the man who’d already fallen in helped to drag the wounded man into the river, their companion following just as a corpse shambled onto the bank.

Grantaire recoiled, shivering violently but keeping his grip on the injured man’s arm, helping him to stay up as they all waded deeper into the river.

“It will follow,” one of the men gasped, his accent strange and strong, and Grantaire shook his head.

“It won’t. Stay away from the bank.” It wouldn’t follow, but it would wait. The Ratterlin was too wide to swim across, especially for someone with an injury, and if they tried to wade downstream, the Dead Hand would simply follow them along the bank. At least, it would until daybreak. Grantaire looked up at the sky, his heart sinking. It didn’t look to be far past midnight, so they would have six or seven hours till dawn.

“What is it?” the injured man whispered, dark hair stuck in wisps to his temples with sweat. As they half-floated, half-paddled, the corpse on the shore groaned, a rasping, breathy rattle that made Grantaire shudder.

“Dead,” he told them. To avoid looking at their pursuer, he stared at his new companions in the weak starlight. The upright pair were both tall, and it looked like they all had dark skin and hair, though one’s was tightly curled and the others had straight. All three were young, probably not older than him, and they were all lean, almost scrawny. 

Memories of a similar flight into the Ratterlin battered him, and Grantaire closed his eyes, tightening his grip on the arm he was still holding. “How are they dead?” one of them demanded. A quick glance told Grantaire it was the curly-haired one. “How are they dead and still walking around?”

“Because…” Grantaire blinked, squinting at them. His bare toes scrabbled for purchase on the stones beneath him. “They’re Dead. That’s what they are. Who’re you? Where’re you from?” Their accents were not ones he recognised, and any Kingdom man would know what the Dead were.

“Who are _you?_ ” the man snapped back, but the other standing man glared at him.

“Feuilly. He just saved our lives.”

The man called Feuilly muttered something in a language Grantaire had never heard, and suddenly all three of them were at it, chattering away. It was too much effort to try to listen or understand. Grantaire closed his eyes again and shifted, finding a rock to brace his feet against so he could lean into the current a little. He could still smell the Dead on the shore, watching them.

“Hey. Hey, are you awake?” 

Something nudged him, and Grantaire shook his head, grunting. The straight-haired one had touched his shoulder, and was frowning again. “What is your name?”

Grantaire blinked, working up the energy to reply. “Grantaire,” he said at last. “Of the Finonn.” None of them showed even a flicker of recognition, and he frowned. “I’m a Traveller.”

“Are we not all?” muttered the injured man, held up between them.

“No.” Grantaire frowned harder. “You’re not Travellers. I don’t recognise you.”

“We are from Kalarime,” the straight-haired man said, flinching as the Dead Hand made another howling, rasping noise. “My name is Combeferre, and this is Feuilly and Joly.”

The foreign names slipped through Grantaire’s mind like water, but he nodded anyway. “I’m Grantaire.”

“You said.”

“Right.” 

There was a moment’s silence, then the injured man whispered, “What are we going to do?”

They couldn’t wait till daybreak. Grantaire forced himself to look at the Hand, examining it. It wasn’t a fresh corpse, that much was clear, but he didn’t think that would make much difference to its strength. “Charter,” he muttered.

“What?” 

He didn’t look to see which of the men had spoken, but let go of the injured man’s arm slowly. “I have to…we can’t stay here. I’ll have to try and…” If he could drive it right, it might hit his protective marks. He didn’t have to leave the safety of the water. If only he’d caught a fish earlier, if only he wasn’t so hungry.

“What are you going to do?” 

Grantaire shivered, glad none of them could see the way his chin was trembling. He couldn’t tell whether it was because of the cold or a childish urge to cry. “Hurt it,” he said, just loud enough for them to hear.

The Dead Hand hissed, hungry, but Grantaire made himself step closer, and then closer, until he was only in the water up to his knees. If it lunged now – but no, if it lunged now, it would be destroyed by the river. _When the Dead do walk, seek water’s run._

He took a deep breath and touched his own Charter mark for courage, lifting his other hand to draw trembling lines in the air. “Peyen,” he whispered, summoning the mark and sending it forward with a sharp gesture. There was a bang and a burst of light, but the Dead Hand only shifted half a step to the right, too fixated on Grantaire in front of it to be driven.

Desperation cracked through Grantaire’s fear, and his next attempt was formed faster, sent forth with more intent. Three marks, bound together with a fourth that was little more than a gesture. “Yist, kalkar, yanett.”

This time, a spinning ball of heat and light hit the corpse in the left knee. It screeched and staggered sideways, led by Grantaire as he struggled upriver against the current, led into one of his protective marks. Charter magic burst into life, and the Dead Hand jerked with another inhuman sound of rage, twisting and then tripping just as one of the foreign men had. 

It hit the water with a smack followed by gushes of hissing steam, and that _stench_ , the awful rot of it, the putrid, decaying reek… Grantaire doubled up and fell forwards onto his knees, crawling into the shallows and vomiting up what was left of yesterday’s breakfast. He retched again and again, tears streaming from his eyes, hearing the savage rattle of dozens of corpses.

“Grantaire! Grantaire, are you alright?”

He was on the shore, stones and pebbles under his head and back. “Marius,” he whispered, before his mind came back to him. “What?”

The straight-haired one, Com-something, was leaning over him, his eyes wide and frightened. “Grantaire, can you get up?”

“Yes.” Saying it was committing to it, and he pushed himself laboriously into a sitting position, and let Com-something haul him to his feet.

“That was incredible,” the injured man gasped, their friend helping him onto the shore. “You saved our lives!”

Grantaire shook his head, shivering and shivering.

“Combeferre” The curly-haired one whispered, and asked something in their language.

“We’ll stay here.” Combeferre answered in Kingdom, squeezed Grantaire’s shaking shoulder and eased the straps of his pack away. “The river is obviously the best place to be. Grantaire, would it be safe to start a fire?”

“I…” Grantaire swallowed, reigned his mind back under control. “Aye, I think so.”

“Alright. Your blankets are dry,” Combeferre went on cautiously. “But the rest of your pack is wet. Do you want to…”

“Aye.” Grantaire twisted and pulled his pack close with numb fingers, pulling the bedroll off the top and letting it fall to the ground. “Use that,” he muttered. “Keep warm.” He pulled out his things carefully, checking each box and bottle. His pack was spelled to be waterproof, and so were his precious boxes, and everything seemed to be dry and undamaged, including his tinderbox. 

The curly-haired man took that, and Combeferre went to gather material for a fire, and Grantaire stared, too exhausted to even think of anything he could do to help. He drifted in a sort of haze as the men started a small fire, and somehow, he ended up lying on his side with his head pillowed on his pack, falling into a deep sleep.


	2. Combeferre

Combeferre kept an eye on Grantaire as they approached the camp. They’d set off an hour or so after dawn, asking Grantaire to come with them, since he said he had nowhere else to go, and no one else he was travelling with. He’d agreed easily enough, but watching him walk alongside them, blank-eyed and hunched, Combeferre wondered whether it was just because he was in shock. He’d been as badly affected by the attack as they had, it seemed, even though they were the ones the corpse had chased through the woods, and Grantaire had been the one to destroy it.

He looked like most of the other citizens of the Old Kingdom that they’d seen so far in dress, but his skin was darker. Not by much, only a strong tan, but everyone Combeferre had seen so far was paler than even Iznenians and Iskerians. There was a slightly ragged, overgrown look to his hair, which was as black as Joly’s, though curlier, and he had a short, slightly patchy beard. Combeferre couldn’t help studying him as they walked, watching him with something like fascination. Grantaire was the first true citizen of the Old Kingdom they had been close enough to properly talk to, not counting the guards who had been escorting them north, and Combeferre had to force himself not to pester him with a thousand questions. He could do that after they’d given the poor man some food.

Joly’s limp was worse than ever after last night, and it took them hours to get through the forest, heading directly west. Grantaire only asked a few questions in that whole time – what were their names, and were they Southerlings? It seemed that he’d heard that they were to come into the Old Kingdom, but no more than that. When they finally emerged from the trees however, he stopped dead and stared at the camp in the valley. Stared and stared, his lips parted in shock.

“There are many more of us south of the Wall,” Feuilly told him, not bothering to hide his amusement as Grantaire absorbed the sight of a thousand tents set up in wobbly lines and irregularly-shaped clumps around small clearings where cook fires had been laid. “We did want to come north as soon as possible. We are looking for people we know…”

“Everyone is looking for someone,” Joly said tiredly. “Most of them, anyway.” His face was drawn with pain, and his arm was around Feuilly’s shoulders.

“How many are you?” Grantaire asked, still wide-eyed.

“All of us? Many more than this. I don’t even know.” Joly looked at Combeferre, who shrugged.

“There were two hundred thousand of us at the Wall in Ancelstierre.” Or so he’d read in a scrap of newspaper borrowed from a policeman at their old camp there. “And there are apparently one thousand, one hundred and twenty of us in this camp. But Celendine is having her baby soon, so there will be a thousand, one hundred and twenty-one.” Grantaire returned this little speech with a blank stare, and Combeferre felt himself blush.

It was as startling as snow in July. When was the last time he’d blushed?

Feuilly broke the silence, jerking his head down the hill and speaking in Chellanian. “We’d better go. Bossuet and the others must be going mad by now.”

Grantaire gave him a quizzical look, but moved forward when they did. “Bossuet,” Joly explained, seeing his expression. “He is my…ah, my friend. He said I should not have gone into the woods. None of us were supposed to, but we wanted to explore, and maybe find some food.”

Grantaire didn’t comment on Joly’s hesitation, to their collective relief. He stayed quiet, his eyes taking in everything as they approached the camp, his whole frame tense. The wind carried the noise and the smells towards them, the babble of hundreds of voices shouting, talking, laughing, arguing, and all the scents of a camp in full use. Lots of wood smoke, a fair bit of sewage, cooking food, and the unmistakable miasma of many unwashed bodies.

No guards in sight, luckily. They’d been warned sternly many times both before and after crossing the Wall that straying from the camp would be a very bad idea. Several people had made a bolt for it as soon as they’d crossed, and never returned. The guards had told them that the Kingdom was a wild land, and there were monsters and evil people who would hurt and kill them if they wandered off alone. They were to act like a herd of goats, with the guards as their keep dogs. 

There was technically nothing stopping them from running away. No fences, like in Ancelstierre, or bombs and murderous locals like in Korrovia. But there were certainly dangers. It had taken them a week of constant walking to make it to their campsite, and they’d only been there another week, though it already felt longer. On the way, they’d heard wolves howling at night, and passed the corpse of a deer that had not been fed on the way it should have been.

Combeferre had heard that the guards said it had been killed by a monster, something dead. Talk of zombies being real in this land had flowed like poisoned water through the camp. Someone had asked a guard about it and the guard had apparently agreed that they were real. Some swore they’d seen the guards use magic – real magic. That they’d lit their fires with just a gesture of their hands. That they spelled their swords and arrows with magic symbols.

Combeferre had tried to sneak around and see, but hadn’t yet been able to catch a glimpse to confirm any of it. He’d been restless and irritable with the lack of certainties and explanations that made sense, and when Feuilly had said he was going to go into the forest to try and find some extra food, and Joly was coming to make sure he didn’t pick any poisonous plants, Combeferre had decided to go with them.

He was sure zombies were real in this land now. He’d seen one himself. He’d smelled it. He’d heard it. There was no way that creature had been a living man with a disease. Combeferre remembered Bajin. He knew what decomposing bodies looked and smelled like. He’d prick his hand and swear by the truth of his words, he was so sure the man had been dead, yet still he’d chased them. And everyone knew a bite or scratch from a zombie turned you into one, so they’d fled, and barely escaped with their lives. Only Grantaire had saved them.

Combeferre was never going into the forest again. Unless he was with a local who knew their way around, he mentally amended. It had been foolish in the extreme to do what they’d done, and it had made their lack of knowledge painfully obvious. They were ignorant of the dangers of this land, and if they were to make it their home, they would have to learn sooner rather than later.

“These tents,” Grantaire said quietly, just a few yards from the edge of the camp. “They’re not yours.”

“No.” Combeferre exchanged a look with Feuilly, who took over. Both of them spoke better Ancelstierren than Joly, who understood it all but spoke it with less fluency.

“Most of our belongings did not survive crossing the Wall. The air here is different, or something like that. Our tents would have fallen apart, like some of our clothes did. Your government provided new things for us. That is why we have to come over slowly, some hundred at a time.”

Grantaire frowned, giving all of them assessing glances. They were all dressed in plain, rough clothes, much like Grantaire’s own, though older and more worn. Bundles of clothes had been provided with the new tents at the crossing point, just beyond the Wall. They had been warned that anything machine-made would disintegrate north of the Wall, but very few had heeded the advice. Combeferre had already lost everything important by that point, but it had been horrible to watch other people clutching dolls, blankets, books, and especially precious photographs as the items fell to pieces in their hands. Their scarves and caps had survived, since they were traditionally handmade, and many people still wore homespun clothes, and for some reason that meant they were safe.

They had speculated – were still speculating – over what it was in the air that made anything machine-made fall to pieces. Joly and Feuilly in particular couldn’t stop discussing it, Joly concerned about what other effects the air might be having on them, Feuilly puzzling over the process that sparked off such a swift destruction of their belongings. He’d asked around and concluded that it was something about the process of automation that marked targets for the Old Kingdom’s air. As long as something was handmade, it was safe. 

A moment later, they were in the camp. They’d been promised that building materials were being delivered to a site further north, and that as soon as everything was in place, they would be allowed to move up there and help build their new homes. Joly told Grantaire about it as they walked further and further into the confusion of tents, avoiding little cooking fires, clearings where people had gathered, and the many guidelines holding the tents in place.

News of their absence had spread, clearly. After so long travelling in the same group, Combeferre knew a lot of his fellow refugees by sight if not by name, and several of them called out relieved greetings, glad they were alive. 

“Who’s your friend?” a woman called, pointing to Grantaire.

“A local,” Feuilly said. “He saved us.”

“Spread the story when it’s over,” she said, sounding both wary and curious. They’d only seen actual inhabitants of the Old Kingdom from a distance since crossing the Wall. Combeferre caught an uncertain look from Feuilly after he nodded to her. Neither of them knew whether Grantaire would be allowed to stay, or what would happen when they got back to their circle. Apparently oblivious, Joly was still chattering away to Grantaire in heavily-accented Ancelstierren.

“Your King – your Prince, actually – he has promised us all land. Farms and even some animals. Maybe half of us were farmers before, but with different crops. Myself and Bossuet, we are from the same place, and we were used to work in the vineyards, but apparently you do not have vinyards here.”

Grantaire shook his head, eyes flicking around to take everything in, though he kept his face turned to Joly’s.

Joly seemed a brighter now they were back in the camp, though he was still wincing when he stepped too heavily on his bad leg. “You bring your wine from across the sea, we’ve heard. Is that true?”

Grantaire lifted a cautious shoulder. “Some, I think. Most comes from up west, on the other side of the Great Forest. It’s warmer up there.”

“Is that part of the Old Kingdom?”

“From the Northwest Desert to the Steppe.”

“Could you draw us a map?” Joly asked eagerly.

“It wouldn’t be very good,” Grantaire warned him, but they didn’t care.

“A map would be wonderful,” Combeferre told him. “We have no real idea of what this country is like at all, and we’re meant to make it our new home. You can sleep with me, by the way,” he added as they approached their circle. “My tent is just big enough for two.” One large, one medium, and four small tents of heavy brown canvas formed a ring around the large cooking fire in the centre, a huge metal pot resting on a grate above it. 

Combeferre just caught a glimpse of Irma and her mother by the fire with Louison before there was a shout of relief, and Bossuet leapt up from the ground and ran at them, barely slowing down in time to not knock Joly off his feet with the strength of his embrace. “Where have you _been?_ I was going to go to the edge of camp to wait, but then I thought what if you come back and I don’t see you and someone has to come and get me and what if you were hurt? Joly –” Bossuet drew back just enough to look down and see that Joly was only standing properly on one leg. “You _are_ hurt! I told you not to go, why did you go?”

He sounded near tears, and Combeferre stepped back to give them some space, keeping an eye on Grantaire as the others either got up from the fire or spilled out of their tents. All nine of the Brideaus, Irma and her mother, Matelote, Gibelotte – even Louison was on her feet. The only one missing was Javert, but he was rarely around during the day. Combeferre didn’t have a chance to say anything before Cosette was shouting his name, and he smiled reflexively as she ran into his arms.

“You are absolutely not to go off like that again!” she cried, cheeks flushed as she drew back and hit him in the shoulder. “I didn’t sleep all night!”

Everyone was talking and asking questions, and Combeferre looked quickly behind him at Grantaire, who’d drawn back and was watching the proceedings with wide eyes.

“Combeferre.” Fantine’s voice cut through the noise like a blade, and Combeferre’s eyes were pulled to hers as though magnetised. “Who is this?”

Combeferre took a step back to stand next to Grantaire and spoke in Ancelstierren so that he’d understand. “This is Grantaire. He saved our lives.”

“Then he is welcome.” Fantine’s words brooked no discussion, though Madame Boissy did not look pleased, and Fantine’s cousin Yvette narrowed her good eye, the burns that covered half her face making the expression look more menacing than she probably intended. They understood enough Ancelstierren to know the word _welcome_.

Grantaire’s eyes darted around as Combeferre guided him to sit by the fire, and he hesitated for a moment before sitting down as though he wanted to be able to run at a moment’s notice. Everyone arranged themselves around the fire the way they would for meals, with the Brideaus on one side and everyone else on the other. Hard bread from the meals they’d missed yesterday and that morning were passed round, with a full portion for Grantaire.

“My name is Fantine Brideau,” Fantine said as Grantaire took the bread Feuilly handed him, and glanced at Joly to confirm that he was allowed to eat. Combeferre tore into his piece ravenously as soon as he had it, and watched as Fantine gestured to her left. “This is my daughter, Cosette, and my son, Enjolras.” He sat on Cosette’s other side, and Combeferre looked at the fire rather than see whether Enjolras exchanged a look with Grantaire. 

Fantine continued, indicating to her right. “This is my cousin Yvette, and her daughters Musichetta and Gallia. My cousin Elise is dead – these are her children Louis and Corin.” The only children in their group, Louis was twelve and Corin ten. Neither looked away from the fire when they were named. “And this is my brother,” Fantine finished, looking to the man sitting to Corin’s right. “Jean Valjean.” Grantaire would not know, but the fact that Fantine had introduced Valjean last indicated that he was not her brother by blood, but by adoption. 

Madame Boissy went next, speaking in Chellanian to introduce herself and Irma. Matelote introduced herself and her sister, and Louison and Bossuet introduced themselves individually. Grantaire glanced sidelong at Combeferre, who saw the uncertainty in his eyes and jumped in. “And you’ve already met me, and Feuilly and Joly.”

Grantaire nodded, and looked around at everyone else. “Well met. My name’s Grantaire, of the Finonn.” 

Fantine inclined her head in return, and spoke slowly. “Please forgive my rudeness. I must ask Combeferre to tell us what happened in Chellanian, so we will all understand. Please, eat,” she added, seeing that Grantaire hadn’t started eating his bread.

“Thank you, mistress.” Grantaire waited until she looked at Combeferre before taking a small bite, and Combeferre began to explain.

They’d gone to the woods thinking only to explore and perhaps find some more food; to at least get the lay of the land a little. They’d gotten distracted and briefly lost, and in the evening it was dark under the trees. They’d decided to stay where they were for the night rather than risk losing themselves further, and managed to fall asleep, with Feuilly on watch. He heard the zombie in time for them to run away from it. It was faster than it should have been, and Joly’s leg had weakened from the run. They’d been about to risk turning to fight it when someone had finally answered their shouts for help.

Feuilly and Joly both testified that Combeferre had told the story truthfully, and Madame Boissy thumped her stick on the ground. “No man’s a good man. You said he killed the zombie with magic – how do we know he won’t use it against us?”

“He saved our lives,” Joly protested. 

“We don’t know who he is,” Madame Boissy snapped. “Did you bring him past one of those guards on your way in?”

There was an awkward pause as Combeferre exchanged looks with Joly and Feuilly, who admitted, “No.”

“How would the guards know if he’s trustworthy?” Musichetta asked Madame Boissy before she could speak again. “They wouldn’t be able to tell any more than we would.”

“Let him defend himself,” Valjean spoke up. As always, he spoke softly, but his voice carried. 

Combeferre looked at Grantaire, who’d finished eating and who looked back at him with a guarded expression. Across the fire, Fantine spoke in Ancelstierren. “Monsieur Grantaire, how is it you were in the woods alone?”

Grantaire blinked at her, turning away from Combeferre. “I was fishing, mistress. I left my band some weeks ago and I’ve been on my own since then.”

“Your band?”

“Other Travellers,” Grantaire lowered his gaze. 

“I see. Why did you help our boys?”

Grantaire frowned, and glanced at Combeferre as though checking that Fantine had spoken correctly. “They were shouting for help, mistress.”

“So you knew they were in danger, and that it might follow them to you?”

“Oh.” Grantaire sat up a little, understanding. “Aye. But they were still shouting, mistress. And I knew the river would protect us from anything Dead.”

There was a murmur of confusion, but Fantine gestured with her hand and quiet fell once more. “We were told people here have magic,” she addressed the circle in quick Chellanian. “And the guards have powers to protect us. The opportunity to ask important questions must be taken.” She looked at Grantaire again and spoke in Ancelstierren. “You have magic, monsieur?”

“I…” Again, Grantaire looked at Combeferre, who nodded.

“The magic you used against the zombie. When you…” He jerked his hand forward, imitating the way Grantaire had appeared to throw light at the creature.

Grantaire nodded and touched his forehead. A mark Combeferre hadn’t noticed before glowed beneath his fingertip, an odd symbol he couldn’t memorise before Grantaire dropped his hand again. “The Charter,” he said, as though that explained it. 

“The guards have that,” Louison muttered in Chellanian. “It must be a good thing.”

“Not necessarily,” Yvette snapped, and Fantine lifted her hand again for quiet.

“What is the Charter?” she asked Grantaire, who blinked at her.

“It’s…the Charter is the song of the world.” Grantaire frowned, probably realising how unhelpful that was. “It’s magic,” he said shortly. “Ordered magic we can learn and use without being corrupted.”

Irma lifted her hand as though they were in school, and blushed when it drew people’s eyes to her. “What is corrupted?”

Feuilly opened his mouth, but Grantaire got there first. “Destroyed,” he told her quietly. “There’s the Charter and Free Magic, and Free Magic destroys the user, body and mind.”

Combeferre made the mistake of looking at Enjolras. He was intimately familiar with his expressions – he could tell with just a moment’s glance that Enjolras was as eager as he was to interrogate Grantaire on every matter he could inform them about. He hadn’t seen Enjolras look so engaged in months.

“You helped our boys with your magic,” Fantine concluded, and there was a moment’s silence while she thought. “Combeferre,” she said, looking at him. “You will take Grantaire to one of the camp guards. If they agree he is of no threat, he may stay.” No one argued, and Combeferre smiled at Grantaire, who nodded.

“As you wish, mistress.”

They got up, Grantaire dipping his head in a short bow to Fantine, and Combeferre led him from the campsite. There had obviously been some eavesdroppers – Combeferre heard footsteps, and saw people hurrying away. The news would be all over the camp in an hour, no doubt.

“What’s a zombie?” Grantaire asked him in a whisper as they walked, picking their way slowly through the tents.

“A living corpse,” Combeferre explained. “It is what we call them. They were just stories for us though, like dragons and ghosts and spirits. We never thought they were real somewhere in the world.”

“This en’t your world.” Grantaire said it with such quiet, leaden certainty that Combeferre stared at him. “We call them the Dead. A body like that is a Dead Hand. Usually they’re raised by necromancers as slaves.” He yawned, passing it to Combeferre as well. It couldn’t be far past noon, but they could both probably do with going to bed.

There was almost always a guard by the stream, so Combeferre headed in that direction. They passed lots of people carrying full and empty pots and bottles, and holding bundles of clothes. Everyone stared at Grantaire, who kept his eyes on the ground.

They were in luck – not one guard was by the stream, but two. They also stared when Combeferre approached them with Grantaire in tow. “And who’s this?” the taller one asked, touching one hand to his sword.

“Well met.” Grantaire stepped forward and gave them a shallow bow. “My name’s Grantaire, of the Finonn.”

“A Traveller?” The other guard raised his eyebrows. “Where’s your band?”

“Don’t have one at present, sir.” 

“And what’re you doing here?” The tall guard frowned. “These people have nothing to trade or buy.”

Combeferre had had enough of being ignored by people who didn’t think he could understand them. “He saved my life, and two of my friends. We owe him shelter, but we wanted to check if you…approved.” He knew what Fantine had meant by it: the guards would know better than them if the Finonn was actually some sort of cult, or if Grantaire carried a mark that meant he was a thief, but it still felt like asking permission.

“Wise.” The shorter guard nodded and took off his helmet, stepping forward towards Grantaire. “If you would?”

Grantaire lifted his hand, and they each touched the other’s forehead. It had to be a common ritual, and Combeferre stared as Grantaire’s mark glowed again, and a similar symbol flared on the guard’s forehead as well.

“All clear,” the guard said brightly, and looked at his fellow. “Stand down, Bahorel. He’s uncorrupted.”

“If you say so.” Bahorel dropped his hand from his sword and gave Grantaire a nod. “You’d best not be up to anything though, Traveller.”

Grantaire’s expression was blank, and he gave them both another short bow. “As you say, sir.”

Combeferre took a step back when no one spoke again, and Grantaire turned to follow him. They left the guards behind, and Combeferre kept a lid on all the questions he wanted to ask. It wouldn’t be kind or polite to bombard Grantaire when he was still obviously exhausted.

Back at their fire, almost everyone was waiting for their return. Combeferre smiled at Fantine and spoke in Chellanian without thinking. “All clear. They say he’s safe. He can sleep in my tent, there’s room for two.” He could see Enjolras out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t dare look properly. Fantine nodded.

“Very well.” She shifted her gaze to Grantaire and switched to Ancelstierren. “You are welcome here, Grantaire of the Finonn.”

Grantaire bowed, like he’d done to the guard. “I’m grateful, mistress. I’ll repay you in kind or kinnett.”

Fantine narrowed her eyes, but nodded in acquiescence anyway. Grantaire couldn’t know that offering to pay for hospitality was an offence, after all.

“Here,” Combeferre muttered to Grantaire. “You can put your things in my tent.” The front flap was propped open to air it, and for a second Combeferre felt inexplicably embarrassed about how bare it was inside. Two blankets and a small bag, and no more. Grantaire’s pack was almost half the height of his body.

“What have you in there?” Musichetta called, sticking her tongue out at Combeferre’s scandalised look. “What?”

But Grantaire smiled and turned, setting his pack down before him and pulling it open. “My trade, mistress. Maybe it can be of use to you. See.” He drew several wooden boxes from inside and opened them one by one, his smile growing as everyone drew close to stare, even Fantine and Madame Boissy. 

The boxes were beautifully made. Each one was divided into little sections, holding bottles, clay pots, and even smaller boxes, the gaps filled with dry grass to prevent breakages. “I cure little ills,” Grantaire explained, running his fingertips over the collection. “Ease coughs and colds, aches and pains. Treat small wounds and bites and stings, bring sleep or keep it at bay, prevent pregnancy and encourage sexual response. I’ve cures for some illnesses, and I can do some small surgeries, like stitches and setting some bones.”

“Some?” Cosette repeated, smiling. It was so kind that Combeferre wasn’t surprised at all when Grantaire smiled back, relieved that no one had commented on Grantaire’s possession of things that would encourage sexual response, whatever that meant.

“I’ve always been better with arms than legs, to tell the truth, miss.”

“Could you treat an old wound?” Joly asked, as Combeferre knew he would, if Bossuet didn’t. 

Grantaire looked at him, then at his leg. “Your leg’s an old injury?”

Joly nodded and tapped his calf. “I was shot, here.”

“What with?”

“A…gun?” Joly cocked his head, frowning when Grantaire only looked at him in puzzlement.

“What’s a gun?”

“They don’t have guns here, Joly,” Enjolras spoke up at last. “They use bows and arrows and swords.”

Grantaire clearly didn’t understand why he was being mocked, but he could sense it all the same, and narrowed his eyes. Before it could go further, Combeferre intervened. “What do you know of our people?” he asked Grantaire, who lost his suspicious air when he looked at him and shook his head.

“Only that you come from south of the Wall.”

“Nothing else?”

Grantaire pursed his lips. “You wear blue. I heard…folks’ve said you’re running from a war, and I’ve been hearing that since last year. Never met any of your people before, but I don’t come south much.”

Combeferre hardly knew where to begin. Thankfully, Cosette wasn’t so slow.

“Joly said you would draw us a map,” she said, getting a metal spoon out of her pocket and kneeling on the ground. She beckoned to Grantaire and handed the spoon to him. “Will you?”

Grantaire stepped forward to take it, blinking as though he didn’t know what to do. “I’m no painter. I know the land by my feet as a I walk it, not from the sky. But I’ll try and copy a map I saw once,” he added, maybe seeing the disappointment on the faces around him.

Combeferre knelt down to his side and watched as Grantaire held the spoon the wrong way up, handle down to scratch into the dirt. The area around the fire had been trodden free of grass and baked by the sun, but it was still soft enough that it didn’t come up in chunks when Grantaire started to dig into it.

He drew three sides of a rectangle first, the top and sides, and then drew coastlines, rough and crooked. One on the left that started two thirds down the side of the rectangle, and one on the right that started a quarter or so from the top corner. “I don’t know the northern and western reaches,” Grantaire explained, drawing quickly for a man who’d claimed not to be an artist. “We don’t go there, or I haven’t at least. This,” he drew a line from the eastern coast almost across to the other side of the map, tilting northwards a little. “Is the Greenwash. And this,” he dragged a deep line from below the Greenwash almost to the bottom of the map, and then gave it a sharp right turn. “Is the Ratterlin. There’s smaller rivers too, but they’re the most important. We’re near the Ratterlin now, that’s where we were last night.” He glanced at Combeferre, who nodded.

Grantaire cleared his throat and scratched gently at a few points on the map, just disturbing the earth enough for them to see. “The Greenwash starts up in the Athask Mountains. Everything north of the Greenwash is the Steppe, and there en’t much there and the tribes don’t care much for trade, so I’ve never been that far. Over here,” he pointed at the left side, “is the Northwest Desert. This is the Great Forest,” he pointed at some of the disturbed dirt he’d made, “and this here’s Belisaere.” An odd dot on the eastern coast. 

“The capital?” Cosette asked before anyone else could. Grantaire nodded. “Where are we?”

“My guess? Here.” Grantaire touched the end of the spoon’s handle to a spot near the bottom of the map, to the left of the Ratterlin. “This is the Wall,” he added, drawing a thick line just below where the Ratterlin made its sharp eastward turn. “South of that is Ancelstierre, I don’t know more than that. You came from the Wall, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Did you pass any towns? Hills?”

“We went along the Old North Road,” Combeferre provided, remembering what he’d been told by someone who had heard it from a Kingdom guard. “Between…Edge? And Roble’s Town.”

“And a place called Uppside,” Bossuet reminded from somewhere behind them.

“Definitely here then,” Grantaire nodded, sitting back. “Twixt Twain and Twight, just off the road twixt Uppside and Ganel. Two hills you’re camped between – Twain’s up north.” He pointed out of the camp. “And Twight’s down south.”

“May I?” Combeferre asked, holding out his hand for the spoon. Grantaire handed it over and shuffled aside, guessing what Combeferre was going to do. “How many miles would you say we are from the wall?” Combeferre asked Feuilly in Chellanian, twisting back to look at him. “Two hundred?”

“More than that.”

“Less than two fifty,” Musichetta said at once. “More like two hundred and twenty-five, I’d say.”

Feuilly nodded, and Combeferre figured out a scale to the left of the map and moved backwards to give himself space to draw. Ancelstierre was a small country, compared to Kalarime, but Combeferre knew its shape. The others watched in silence, apparently satisfied with his rendering of it, and then of the Sunder Sea, and the coast of Korrovia.

The four Southerling States, as they were known in Ancelstierre, put together made a shape almost like a rectangle with a chunk taken out of the top left corner, and then tilted to stand on its bottom left point. In the bottom right was Kalarime, with the Alps keeping it neatly separated from the others, on paper (or dirt) if not in real life. Korrovia was directly above it, its coast facing Ancelstierre. West of both were the neater squarish shapes of Iznenia and Iskeria, one stacked on top of the other and separated by the Nez River.

Combeferre had to keep shuffling backwards to fit it all in, and he was sure he’d gotten at least some of the coastal features wrong, but it served well enough. Grantaire, when he looked up, appeared stunned. Everyone else just looked sad.

Fantine began to speak. The war, she said in her slow, quiet Ancelstierren, had begun in Iskeria. A rebellion, sparked by the deaths of two young women who had been protesting against the Autarchy. 

Iskeria’s conflict had grown, and spilled over into its neighbour, Iznenia. The stories varied – the Iznenians had promised salvation and delivered a massacre, the Iznenians were pawns, the Korrovians had invaded on the Autarchy’s behalf to stamp out the rebels, the Iznenians were cowards, the Iznenians were victims, the Iznenians had been tricked, the rebels had been tricked, everyone had been tricked.

Kalarimian diplomats were sent to Iskeria – and assassinated. No one took responsibility, until suddenly everyone did. Two weeks later, the Eagle Party staged a coup, resurrected the monarchy with a puppet king on the throne, and the round-ups of those who hadn’t supported the war had begun. A resistance formed immediately, and civil war broke out in Kalarime. Factions on factions on factions, and each as cutthroat as the next. Montleire, their town, was one of the first stops on the old Pashan road, the strongest trade route through the Alps, and was therefore a vital territory to control. Montleire had changed hands between factions too many times to remember before they’d fled.

“We had to run,” Cosette said, cutting it short before the explanation started to become too complicated for someone who’d barely heard of Southerlings, let alone the different countries they came from. “They were killing us and stealing all our food. We could not stay.”

Combeferre realised his grip on the spoon was so tight the metal was biting into his palm. He relaxed slowly, hoping no one had noticed.

Grantaire’s fingers hovered over their makeshift map, tracing the distance from Belisaere to the Wall, and then the distance from there to Kalarime. It was almost two thousand miles, by Combeferre’s reckoning. “You’ve come a long way,” he said at last. “An unwanted journey is a dread thing. I hope you fare better here than there.”

“Thank you,” Fantine said. Her hand brushed Cosette’s shoulder, and Cosette reached back to take it without looking. “We hope this also.”


	3. Grantaire

Grantaire slept like a dog at Combeferre’s side, a rag from his pack tied over his eyes to keep out the light of the afternoon sun. It was hot in the tent, and with all the noise from the camp it should have been difficult to drop off, but Grantaire slept better than he had in weeks. Whether it was because the sound of activity around him made him feel safer, or because he was so tired he could have slept standing up, he didn’t care to know.

He woke when Combeferre did, as dusk was falling and food was being served. Tomorrow he would work on repayment, Grantaire decided, already trying to figure out how he could help Joly’s leg. He couldn’t repay them in kind, having no hospitality or shelter of his own to offer, but he could work on repaying in kinnett – in something of equal worth. For tonight, he could repay them with his gratitude and answers to any questions they had. And they had plenty.

They provided him with scraps of information they had picked up – that the dead could rise again, that some sort of magic existed here, that anything machine-made could not survive, a few place names – and Grantaire filled in the gaps as best he could.

He told them what he knew about the Dead, and recited the rhyme every Kingdom child was taught practically from birth. He told them what he could about the Charter and Free Magic, explaining that the tall monuments they’d seen on their way here from the Wall had been Charter Stones, and that the Charter was magic that connected everything in the Kingdom. He hadn’t realised how many gaps there were in his knowledge though. He couldn’t explain properly how the Charter worked – he’d traced a mark on a stick and made it glow, but hadn’t been able to explain what kind of light it was or how he’d done it. Making things appear in his hands from his pack or his pockets produced only gasps and more questions he hadn’t been able to answer.

He was far more comfortable talking about the land. He’d been travelling up and down the country his whole life, and he knew the towns and rivers and woods well. He guessed that the settlement they’d been promised would be just a little further north, below the Westway, and he could tell them with actual authority what the wildlife was like here, and the weather, and the people. He talked until his mouth was dry. And while he talked, he looked.

He repeated people’s names in his head when he heard them, making sure to fix them in his mind to the face they went with. He picked up from things they said that their country had descended into a sort of anarchy, with people using the chaos of the regime change to settle old grudges and scores, and that many young men and women had been forced into armies and militias, and many had fled to avoid that fate. There were many such people here, people like Louison and Feuilly who were entirely alone, as well as family groups like the Brideaus.

“My mother has a question,” Irma said after a quick exchange with Madame Boissy in their own language – Chellanian. “She asks, are you sure the king will honour his word? Will we be given farms?”

Grantaire nodded, sure of that at least. “The king’s a good man. If he gave his word, it will be done.”

Fantine’s son, Enjolras, snorted. Grantaire didn’t quite dare to glare at him, but he did look. Enjolras was handsome, with the same rich chestnut hair as his mother and sister, and a hard set to his mouth that put Grantaire on edge. “Because kings are so trustworthy.”

“Not every king is a tyrant or puppet,” Cosette said quietly, but Enjolras shook his head and said something in Chellanian that had Madame Boissy barking an agreement at the same time as Cosette protested.

“A king is born to his position,” Enjolras snapped in Kingdom, and he wasn’t shy to glare at Grantaire. “He does not earn it. What would he care for our fate?”

“He’s given us shelter, and food,” Feuilly said, his expression empty. 

Enjolras snorted again. “So did the Ancelstierrens. The only good king is a dead one.”

Grantaire knew he was being baited. He knew it and still bit. “What do you know of King Touchstone?” he asked, keeping his tone level at least. “Have you ever met him?”

Enjolras sneered. “As if a king would stoop to greet someone like me.”

“He would,” Grantaire retorted. “You don’t understand. The land needs a king, you don’t know the first thing about it.”

Enjolras shook off the hand his mother laid on his arm and stood up, his face pale. “From one dictatorship to another then. How fortunate we are.” He went to the large tent, and the two youngest Brideaus followed him in silence. It was as if he’d taken Grantaire’s courage with him. Faced with only the sound of the fire, Grantaire ducked his head.

“I meant no offence, begging your pardon.”

“Don’t.” Cosette, when he looked up, was smiling sadly at him. “We are still running from the life we left behind. We have no reason to love kings.”

They all started to go to bed then, taking their dirty bowls and spoons with them to their tents. Grantaire followed Combeferre, first to the nearest latrine pit, and then to his tent.

The night was chill, but the tent warmed up quickly with Combeferre next to him. Grantaire lay on his side and listened to Combeferre breathing. It was easy to pretend it was Marius. For once though, he didn’t wallow in his memories. His head was too full of questions and thoughts concerning the Southerlings. If they allowed it, perhaps he could stay a while. He had nowhere else to be, after all, and he might be of some service to them with his cures, and his hunting. 

He would like to stay a while, if they’d let him. 

Over the next few days, Grantaire learned more of the countries the Southerlings had come from, and the war that had driven them from their homes. It became quickly apparent that Enjolras’ hatred for kings wasn’t unique – there were many who spat on the ground at the very mention of the new Kalarimian king. But there were just as many who spoke sadly and with respect of the old king, though Combeferre had muttered once that they weren’t any different. It took a while for Grantaire to figure out that both kings were actually women, the word _roi_ apparently applying to the ruler regardless of their gender.

Women were clearly the leaders of their families, though not necessarily of the circles in the camp. With limited cooking pots and fires, circles were what the Southerlings called the bands of people who all used the same fire. Certain families held great influence in the camp, the Brideaus being one of them. Many people had scarred palms, oaths and promises being very important to Southerlings, and marked by creating scars in spiral patterns. To break an oath was to be cast from their society in disgust, and on that point Grantaire could at least find common ground, a Traveller’s word being his bond.

He also went through almost all of his cures, going through the camp with Combeferre and Joly and offering to help where he could, and awkwardly introducing himself to people who already knew who he was and most of what he’d told Combeferre and the others on that first day. Curious as they were, however, they were more than willing to put that aside to focus on the help he was offering.

Some shrewd part of him was horrified at the way he was basically giving away something for nothing, handing out his cures for nothing more than words of thanks. But that part was overpowered by the sight of the people around him. They weren’t starving or sickly, not all of them, but they were worn down and worn thin. They’d lost everything, and Grantaire understood that, and couldn’t have turned away even if that part of him had been stronger. How could anyone walk among people in need and not give what they had?

So his stock of ointments for aches and pains vanished, as did the tinctures and tonics he had for coughs and colds. All of his filwort oil went to those with lice, particularly children. What he could give to bring on sleep went the fastest, to his surprise, but Joly explained in a low voice that there were many who suffered from insomnia and nightmares. For Joly, Grantaire had given him an entire pot of ointment to ease the pain in his leg. It was all he could do – he had no experience with the weapons that had caused the injury.

Feuilly tried to explain them to him, these guns and bombs that had caused so much suffering, but Grantaire still wasn’t sure he understood. What sort of thing could reduce entire towns and villages to rubble in minutes? It was beyond him.

He’d always been good with names, but he got to know the people behind them a little better. The young men were the friendliest, with the exception of Enjolras, and Combeferre was the kindest of all. He was the one who asked privately on the third morning in his tent whether Grantaire had anything that would help with childbirth, and whether he’d ever helped with one himself before.

A woman called Celendine was due to give birth, apparently, and she was an unfortunate on her own, with no actual family to help her. There were women who would give what aid they could, of course, but if there was anything Grantaire could add, it would be greatly appreciated.

“I’ve never attended a birth,” he told Combeferre, shrugging helplessly. “It’s women’s work. My ma…she’d be the one to help with that.” They were in Combeferre’s tent, just woken up, sitting cross-legged opposite each other in the small space.

Combeferre nodded. “I wanted to ask, just in case.”

“En’t it women’s work for your folk?” Grantaire asked, cautious. He knew he’d made missteps already – offering to pay someone back for hospitality was an insult, he’d been told, so he hadn’t brought it up again though it made him feel prickly and awkward.

“Yes, but…” Combeferre shrugged. “Men can be doctors, and they can help. You are a bit of a doctor.”

“Only a Traveller.” Grantaire looked down, rubbing his fingers together. “I’m sorry I can’t help more.”

“It’s alright.” Combeferre’s voice was warm, as it so often was. “You’ve helped so much already.”

“I thought…” Grantaire made himself be still, and looked up at Combeferre. “I thought I might go to the woods today and lay some traps. Maybe look for more plants too, I could make teas if nothing else. Especially for sleep – there’ll be plenty of chamomile and cowslip about, this time of year.”

Combeferre sucked his lower lip between his teeth. “Is it safe? Will there be more of those things out there? Zombies?”

“Dead Hands?” Grantaire shook his head. “Not in the daytime. They can’t bear the sun.”

“Under the trees though…”

“It’s safe enough.” Grantaire couldn’t let Combeferre put him off. They didn’t have enough food for him – the weekly rations were delivered based on the exact number of Southerlings in each camp, and the rations were small, barely enough for two meals a day. Anything Grantaire ate here was stolen from the mouth of another who needed it more, and that knowledge was gnawing at him. “This land’s in my bones, especially these woods. I know what I’m doing.”

Still Combeferre worried his lip, and somehow Grantaire knew what he was going to ask before he opened his mouth. “Can I come with you then?”

“If you wish. Are you…would anyone mind?”

Combeferre shook his head, expression grave. “I have no family left.”

The camp was waking up around them, separated only by the canvas of the tent. They were both hunched over as they sat, but Combeferre was stooped deeper. He was taller than Grantaire by several inches, and his hair fell in his eyes. Grantaire had guessed he was alone, but Combeferre hadn’t said so out loud before.

“Me neither,” Grantaire said, embarrassed to find himself ashamed of it.

Combeferre met his eyes and blinked once. “What happened to yours?”

“The Dead.” Grantaire couldn’t hold his gaze, and had to swallow before he could continue. “A year or so ago. It was…things’ve gotten better since, but it was worst then. Lots of broken Charter Stones, lots of Dead, more necromancers abroad than usual.” The more he spoke, the easier it was. “We were camped in Sickle – the Great Sickle Wood, just east of the Ratterlin from here. I don’t know how many Dead there were, must’ve been more than a dozen.” He swallowed again. “My cousin and me, we made it to the river, but it’d stormed not long before and the current was too strong. He drowned. I’m the only one left.”

“What were their names?”

The question was like a thin dagger, so thin Grantaire hardly felt the pain until after it was in. It was a Southerling thing, he guessed. They were so deliberate with their introductions, perhaps that was part of it.

“My grandfather, Normand,” he started. “His oldest daughter, my Aunt Ganel. His second oldest, my mother, Merrin. His third oldest, my Aunt Janess, her husband Uneth, their daughter Lilibet.” Little Lilibet. When was the last time he’d spoken her name aloud? He forced himself on. “And my cousin Marius, son of my grandfather’s youngest daughter. She died when we were babies. We were a small band,” he added. “Smaller than most. Hardly a father among us.” He cleared his throat and looked at Combeferre. “What were your family’s names?”

Combeferre smiled at him, so Grantaire supposed he’d asked the right question. Combeferre’s family, however, had not been small. Grantaire concentrated hard, but there were still far too many names for him to remember. Combeferre had had no father either, but his mother had four siblings, there had been several cousins, and many great-aunts and uncles as well as a grandmother and great-grandmother. 

They were called for breakfast before Grantaire could ask, and he turned his thoughts over in his head as they ate, sending surreptitious glances at the Brideau family. He’d assumed that the lack of men in their family was because they’d been killed in the war, but perhaps not? Fantine had never mentioned a husband, dead or otherwise, and neither had her cousin Yvette.

He and Combeferre shaved together after they’d eaten, since they’d gotten up so late. Grantaire had joined in with the other men on the first morning he’d woken in the camp. Southerling men were clean-shaven, generally speaking. It wasn’t respectable to have a beard – Feuilly had said it made a man look villainous. Grantaire’s beard was only a scruff at that point, but he’d shaved with the others anyway, not wanting to stand out more than he already did.

It was a pleasant ritual to join in with anyway. There were only two razors between them all, three including Grantaire’s, so they passed them around and took turns. Most shaved by touch alone, but Joly and Bossuet always shaved each other, so intimate that Grantaire could hardly bear to look.

Combeferre told the others they were going to the woods, and promised to be back before nightfall. On the way out of the camp, Grantaire walked behind him and kept his thoughts to himself. There was a guard just beyond the line of tents, between them and the woods, and when Combeferre hesitated, Grantaire took the lead and went straight over to them.

It was one of the guards he’d met on his first day, he realised as they approached. Bahorel or Jehan, he’d forgotten which was which. “Well met,” he called as they got within hailing distance, and gave the guard a small bow.

“Traveller.” A friendly voice, so Grantaire guessed this was Jehan. “What are you doing?”

“Headed to the woods, sir.” Grantaire tilted his head towards Combeferre. “With a friend. I’ve no wish to take food from hungry mouths, and I know my way around these parts.”

“You plan on returning?” Jehan didn’t smile, but his expression wasn’t aggressive either.

“They’re lending me shelter, sir. I wish to repay them.”

“That’s fair.” Jehan did frown now. “Are you alright, Traveller? Did you lose your band on the road somewhere?”

Grantaire blinked, not used to concern from someone in armour. “No, sir. They’re dead.”

“Ah, I’m sorry.” He sounded it too. “Well, you’re welcome to stay as long as the Southerlings like, I suppose. I don’t think we could stop you even if we wanted to, which seems right.” He rubbed a hand through his hair, which was long and red. “We’re stationed here for the foreseeable future in any case, so maybe we’ll see more of each other. Charter knows we could use the company.” He smiled, cheeks turning pink as he looked at Combeferre. “Meaning no disrespect, of course. We’re not really supposed to be making friends, I don’t think, though it seems a shame not to. Anyway, please don’t let me keep you.” He gestured to the woods. “I hope it’s more pleasant in the shade.”

“Thank you, sir,” Grantaire said, bemused by the man’s outburst.

“Call me Jehan, please.” Jehan smiled. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name, though I think you said you were of the Finonn?”

“Aye, sir. Um. Jehan.” Grantaire shook his head. “My name’s Grantaire. And this is Combeferre,” he added, glancing back at Combeferre, who shrugged.

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“And you.” Grantaire hesitated, then bowed again because it would have felt odd not to. He led Combeferre away quickly, still confused.

“He seems nice,” Combeferre said as they reached the trees.

“Guards aren’t normally. Maybe he wants something.” That was probably it. Grantaire relaxed as he accepted that justification. Jehan would probably ask him for something the next time they saw each other – that would be the way of it. Meat, maybe, or a remedy for an ailment.

“He did say he wanted company.” Combeferre looked up at the canopy. “It’s so different to home.”

“What are your trees like?” Grantaire had gathered that it was hotter in Kalarime and the other Southerling countries. Hot enough for vines that made grapes for wine, as Joly and Bossuet had said.

“Dryer.” Combeferre gave him a crooked smile, a sideways look that made Grantaire smile in return before he’d even realised it. “Do you have fruit trees?”

“Apples and pears,” Grantaire nodded. “Cherries and plums. And there’ll be plenty of berries come summer’s end. Blackberries, gooseberries, raspberries…all sorts.”

“We have peaches,” Combeferre said wistfully, looking away again. “And apricots, and lemons and oranges and limes.”

“There’s lemons up in Belisaere,” Grantaire remembered. “And oranges. They come from across the sea, but there’s growers who trade them. I had an orange once, I think.”

Combeferre’s smile was breathtaking. Grantaire actually felt his chest seize for a second at the sight. “I love oranges,” Combeferre said. “They’re my favourites. I didn’t think we would be able to get them here.”

“Not easily,” Grantaire said, recovering. “But you can.”

“You don’t know how good it is to hear that,” Combeferre grinned. “I cannot wait to tell the others.”

Grantaire felt lighter, lifted up by Combeferre’s good humour. “Come on,” he said. “I need to lay some traps. And…I wanted to ask you something.”

“Of course.”

“I mean no offence,” Grantaire warned him, a little nervous now. “I just wanted to ask.”

“Yes?”

“You didn’t mention a father, when you were telling me about your family.” Grantaire kept his eyes on the forest, looking for signs that animals had been here. “And Madame Brideau and her cousin, and Madame Boissy – none of ‘em have mentioned husbands. Do you not have them, in Kalarime?”

“Oh.” Combeferre laughed, and to Grantaire’s great surprise, reached out and squeezed Grantaire’s shoulder. “We do not, no. The Ancelstierrens found this very strange also.”

“You don’t marry?” Grantaire frowned at him, more confused than ever.

“No.” Combeferre seemed even taller under the trees, the sun turning his dark hair coppery. “Are Travellers like Ancelstierrens then?”

“How?”

“A man from one family and a woman from another want to have children, so they marry, and the woman goes to live with the man’s family? Or they start somewhere new together?”

Grantaire gave him a baffled look. “Aye. How do your folk do it?”

“Children always stay with their families. If a man and woman want to lie together, they do it. They don’t have to marry and be only with each other forever. The father is not important – it is the mother and the children that are important. Her children belong to her and her family, and stay with them. The father does not live with them.”

Grantaire considered that. “And it doesn’t matter who the father is? No one cares?”

“She does not have to say, if she does not wish it.” Combeferre shrugged. “It would be her business. And her family brings up the children. In Ancelstierre, it is shameful not to know who a father is, or for a baby to be born to a woman who is not married. Is that so with Travellers? And the other people in this kingdom?”

“Aye.” Grantaire found himself unexpectedly sombre, taken aback by how flippant Combeferre’s attitude to fatherhood was. 

Combeferre looked at him. “Do your mothers go to live with their husband’s families?”

“Normally, aye.”

“But you and your cousins stayed with your mother’s family?”

“Ah.” Grantaire chewed the inside of his cheek. “It’s like that for settled Kingdom folk, I think. For Travellers, it depends on the clan. Finonn mothers stay with their families and their husbands come to them. It’s the same for the Tillonn. The Jeddan barter for who goes where, and the Tallach, Reddach, and Kenache wives go to their husband’s families.”

“So you stayed with your mother’s family?”

“Aye.”

“What about your father then?”

“He died,” Grantaire said shortly. “Marius’ father too.” Though at least Marius’ father had been taken from them unwillingly. Grantaire’s had left his mother and drunk himself to death after failing to marry another woman. If Grantaire never heard his name again, he’d die happy.

“I am sorry.”

He was suddenly seized with a desire to tell Combeferre about his father, to confess how good it sounded to never have to know who sired you, to never be sullied by their behaviour. The urge passed, and Grantaire shook his head. “It was a long time ago. Here – you need to pick up your feet, higher, like this.” He demonstrated. “So you’re not disturbing the ground so much.”

They spent hours in the forest, Grantaire laying the traps he’d brought with him from his pack and foraging for the abundant food. He showed Combeferre which plants were safe to take and which weren’t, how to spot animals tracks between the trees. He named the trees for him, and between them they figured out which ones Combeferre knew already and which he didn’t. Combeferre told him about his favourite trees from back home, olive trees, which made a fruit Grantaire had never heard of that could be turned into an oil that could be used for anything, by the way Combeferre described it.

They found a wallow that a family of boars had clearly been using, and Grantaire showed Combeferre the tracks leading to and from it, big trotter prints next to little ones. There were unmistakeable signs of rabbits, and Grantaire spotted a plucking post that had recently been in use, probably by a sparrowhawk. On the walk back, they walked in silence apart from when Grantaire identified birds by their calls. Magpies, blackbirds, various tits and finches. He was showing off and he knew it, and Combeferre had to know too, but he couldn’t make himself stop. He hadn’t chattered away like this since before his family had been killed, and it was strange to find himself still capable of it.

“It’s good to get out of the camp,” Combeferre sighed as they came to the edge of the woods. They’d kept their word – there was still at least an hour till dusk. “Will you go out tomorrow as well?”

“Got to check the traps,” Grantaire said. “I’ll set out early.”

“Can I come?”

Grantaire’s smiles had been coming easier all day, and he gave Combeferre one now. “If you like.”

The camp seemed to close around them like a net as they walked back through it, picking their way through the twisting path to the Brideau clearing. A man whistled to get their attention when they were nearly there, and when Combeferre paused, so did Grantaire. Their waylayer was tall and thin, with striking good looks. He was even more handsome than Enjolras, Grantaire thought, his hair a similar bright chestnut though it was longer, falling to his shoulders in thick waves.

“Montparnasse,” Combeferre said. “Have you met Grantaire?”

“We are not met.” Montparnasse’s accent was so thick it was practically unintelligible, and he gave Grantaire a look of contempt before speaking to Combeferre in Chellanian. Combeferre responded in kind, his voice mild. Whatever he said wasn’t pleasing to Montparnasse, who gave Grantaire a venomous look and muttered something before turning on his heel and leaving. He was wearing the same roughspun clothes as everybody else, but they looked different on him. Grantaire squinted after him in dawning surprise.

“Has he tailored his clothes?”

“Probably.” Combeferre’s fingers brushed his arm, bare below the elbow where he’d rolled up his sleeves. “Come on.”

“What did he want?” Grantaire asked, his hand springing to cover the place Combeferre had touched.

“She wants you to do magic for her.” Combeferre’s lip curled. “I am surprised she waited this long to ask.”

Hot embarrassment flooded through Grantaire, along with confusion. He’d been sure Montparnasse was a man, but he didn’t want to question Combeferre. “What magic?”

Combeferre huffed through his nose like an annoyed horse. “Something useful to her, I’m sure. Prettier clothes, perhaps, or better food. Better not to start, or she will never let you stop. Be on guard around her – she says she’s killed people, and I believe her.”

He said it with such cold anger that Grantaire didn’t dare ask anything more.

When they got back to the clearing, most of the group was sat around the fire, speaking in Chellanian. Fantine and Valjean were absent, as were the two little Brideaus, Louis and Corin. Enjolras, Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet had obviously gone to get water – several pots were missing – but everyone else was there. The Nason sisters were tending whatever was cooking in the pot, and Grantaire gave them the wild herbs he’d picked earlier. They were only a little crushed from his pockets. 

Matelote and Gibelotte were suspicious until he tasted them to prove they were safe. They did the same and had a very quick exchange in Chellanian, both of their expressions brightening. Matelote turned to Grantaire and nodded. “Thank you, monsieur.”

“You’re welcome.” Monsieur was the same as sir, Grantaire had guessed by now, but he was going to need to know more than that if he was going to stay longer.

He sat between Combeferre and Feuilly, and glanced at each of them in turn. “How would I say hello in Chellanian?”

Feuilly grinned. “Bonjour. We say bonjour.”

“Bonjour,” Grantaire repeated. They paused as Enjolras returned at the same time as Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta came through the tents. Each of them carried large pots of water which they placed by the fire. Grantaire tried to return his attention to Feuilly. “How would I ask if they are well?”

“Just to say, how are you?” Feuilly smiled. “Bonjour, ça va?”

“And to say I am well,” Combeferre said on his other side, “I would say ça va back.”

Grantaire nodded, and they kept going. They named things for him – the fire, the pots, the tents, the words for mother, sister, brother, uncle, aunt, friend, and a word that Cosette explained meant joined together, which was used for people in romantic relationships. 

Madame Boissy in particular was very pleased that he’d decided to learn Chellanian, clearly considering it a superior language to Kingdom. Grantaire wasn’t sure why some words had to start with le and others with la, but Combeferre assured him he would get the hang of it. By the time Matelote and Gibelotte decided their food was ready, he could almost string a sentence together from the simple words they’d taught him.

Fantine and Valjean returned as if summoned by food, and brought Javert with them. Combeferre had told him that Javert had been a police inspector in Kalarime. If he noticed Grantaire was there, he didn’t show it, seemingly content with ignoring and being ignored by everybody save Valjean.

While they ate what was very generously being called stew, normally quiet Louison asked Grantaire to tell them more about the history of the Kingdom. “Nobody in Ancelstierre knows anything,” she said softly. “They call it the Old Kingdom – why?”

Grantaire couldn’t answer that. “I know as much about Ancelstierre as they do about us, it sounds like.” He made sure to speak slowly, conscious after his short lesson in Chellanian how difficult it was to understand an unknown language spoken quickly. “It’s just the Kingdom to me. As for history…well, this is the twenty-first year of the Restoration, King Touchstone’s reign. I was born three years afore that, during the Interregnum.”

“The what?” Cosette asked, leaning in. He had everyone’s attention now, and Grantaire felt Enjolras’ gaze weighing heaviest.

“The Interregnum,” he said. “About two hundred years the Kingdom had no King or Queen. King Touchstone’s mother, the Queen then, she was killed by a necromancer, and Touchstone was spelled asleep to save his life. The Abhorsen woke him twenty-one years ago, and he took his place on the throne and started fixing things.” 

Irma murmured a translation for her mother and anyone else who hadn’t been able to follow, and Grantaire straightened as Fantine leaned forward. She looked strikingly similar to Cosette in that moment. “Excuse me. You say the king was asleep for two hundred years?”

“Aye, mistress.”

She frowned. “This is possible with your magic?”

“With the Charter, aye. Not something I could do though,” he added, wondering if that was something she was worried about. “I’m no mage.”

“You aren’t powerful enough,” Enjolras said, not quite asking, and Grantaire nodded. He wasn’t ashamed to admit it, but Enjolras sounded dismissive enough to sting what little pride he had.

“I’m not trained as a mage,” he said. “I can do what most Travellers can – start fires, fight a bit, hunt, and heal.” The effs and aiches, his ma had called them. He knew a little more than some because of Marius’ interest in the Charter, taking after his father, but still less than many. 

“Are there many mages?” Fantine asked.

Grantaire shrugged. “At least one or two a band – and a village, or there should be. All the guards are trained a bit. And everyone’s baptised into it.”

Javert murmured something in Chellanian, too quiet and quick for Grantaire to understand. Valjean translated. “It is not a religion, is this right?”

“The Charter en’t a god.” Grantaire lifted a shoulder. “But being baptised in it gives you protection, connects you to it. So you can tell what’s Dead and what’s not, and feel Free Magic if it’s near. You’d not stand much of a chance without it.” He realised too late what he’d said, and bit his lip. His words weren’t lost on his audience. Several of them whispered to each other in Chellanian, and a moment later Feuilly bumped his leg with his own.

“What would happen if we were baptised?”

“You’d be connected to the Charter.” Grantaire tried to think. “You’d not need to be mages, not unless you wanted to. You’d have better protection – the Charter is in the land, in the Stones, and in the blood of the King.”

“What would we lose?” Louison asked quietly. “What is the price?”

Grantaire tried to imagine living without the Charter. It was possible, he knew, but to choose such an existence seemed insane. Were there any downsides to the Charter? “On your way here,” he said, a thought striking him, “you passed some Charter Stones, didn’t you?” There was a smattering of cautious nods. “When those are broken, you feel it if you’re baptised. Being near them makes you sick.” He had to think for a moment to figure out how to phrase it. “Baptism makes you sensitive to it,” he settled on. “You can feel what’s right, but you can feel what’s wrong too, and that can be horrible. But it’s a warning too. Like pain – it’s a message to tell you something’s wrong. T’en’t pleasant, but it’s useful.”

“Do you know if there is a plan to baptise us?” Fantine asked.

“No, mistress. But I’m only a Traveller, and I’ve been away from people for a long time. I didn’t even know your people were coming this way. I could ask a guard though, they’d likely know.”

“And they might actually talk to you.” Fantine nodded and set her bowl aside. There was a moment’s silence, and then she looked across the fire at Grantaire again. “You think it would be safer for us to be baptised?”

Madame Boissy hissed, but since Fantine ignored her so did Grantaire. “Aye, mistress. You’d need a proper Charter Mage for it though – I couldn’t do it.”

She nodded, and rose to her feet. “I will think on the matter. We should sleep now. Corin, Louis, allons-y.” Yvette followed her, chivvying her daughters ahead of her. Gallia went quietly, but Musichetta cast a disgruntled look behind her.

Almost everyone was on their feet when Enjolras spoke suddenly, looking at Grantaire as his mother had, across the fire. “What did you mean, the Charter is in the king’s blood?”

Grantaire stood as well, wanting to be on the same level. “It’s as I said. The Charter is in the land, and the land needs a King. The Kingdom needs a King.”

Enjolras made a scornful sound, a sort of _tss!_ between his teeth and tongue. “Nowhere needs a king,” he said, so full of conviction and weariness that Grantaire hardly knew for a moment whether to spit at him or agree.

But this was his home, and he knew it better than this stranger. “This land does. You don’t understand, the land needs all the five to work properly.”

“Five? As in the number?” Bossuet frowned, holding up his hand, fingers spread. Grantaire nodded.

“When the Charter was made, it was held together by five things – the royal line, the Abhorsen’s line, the Wallmaker’s line, the Wallmakers’ relics, and the Clayr line. The five Great Charters.”

“How can –”

“A line, what is –”

“What do you –”

Irma snapped something in Chellanian – an order for everyone to shut up, perhaps, since they all fell quiet.

“A bloodline,” Grantaire said, self-conscious in the sudden hush, and worried he was keeping them from their beds after Fantine had essentially called an end to the evening. “Like a family line, like your family.” He gestured to Enjolras, who stood back a little as if affronted. “All the families have to be alive for the Kingdom to be healthy. Five Great Charters knit the land,” he recited, hoping that the child’s rhyme would get through to them. “Together linked, hand in hand. One in the people who wear the crown, Two in the folk that keep the Dead down. Three and Five became stone and mortar, and Four sees all in frozen water.” He cleared his throat. “See, the people who wear the crown are the royal line, those that keep the Dead down are the Abhorsens, stone and mortar means the Wallmakers, and those that see the future in the water are the Clayr.”

He considered a few minutes later that he had perhaps gone too far in his attempts to explain the natural order of the Kingdom. Explaining what the Wallmakers were took a painfully long time, especially because they were the Great Charter he knew the least about himself. Most of the Southerlings refused outright to believe that the Clayr could See the future. 

Fantine clapped her hands at last, silencing everyone. “Tomorrow,” she said firmly. “People are trying to sleep.”

There were grumbles, but Irma banked the fire and everybody else began shuffling towards their tents. Everyone except, of course, Enjolras. Grantaire was keeping a lid on his irritation, but only just. Enjolras came over to whisper, “The royal line could survive even if the King were not King. All that is needed is for his line to live – does he need to keep a kingdom under his heel also?”

“The Kingdom is not under his heel!” Grantaire snapped. “You don’t understand.”

“How often we have heard that.” Enjolras leaned back, the barest hint of a sneer on his lips. “We should have it tattooed on our skin, that we will never understand. As if we do not know very well how poisonous the idea of a supreme ruler is.” He stalked away and into his family’s tent, leaving Grantaire burning with anger, a torrent of words pent up behind his teeth that Enjolras had denied him the right of unleashing.

“He must have the last word,” Combeferre muttered. For some reason his comment sparked visible sympathy and discomfort in some of the others, though it dissipated quickly as Combeferre stood up and headed off in the direction of the latrines.

Uncertain, Grantaire glanced at Feuilly, and when he wouldn’t meet Grantaire’s eyes, at Joly and Bossuet. Bossuet was more forthcoming, leaning over to say softly, “They used to be – ow!” Joly had just elbowed him.

“Best friends,” Joly said, as though nothing had happened. “They used to be best friends.”

Cosette snorted and said something in Chellanian. Joly responded in kind, and Bossuet joined in, sounding a little aggrieved about being elbowed.

“You could just tell me,” Grantaire said flatly. “Then you wouldn’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing.”

The trio fell silent, exchanging meaning-filled looks. This conversation was less interesting to everybody else, it seemed, because they were now the only ones not in their tents. Grantaire tried to bury his irritation, and hoped it wasn’t evident on his face when Cosette asked, “Are you like the Ancelstierrens with your marrying?”

“What? Oh.” He remembered Combeferre’s explanations from earlier. “Aye. We marry.”

“Only men and women?”

Grantaire stared at her, and she sighed. “Men only marry women, and women only marry men? No men marrying men?”

“Why would a man marry a man?” Grantaire asked, a spike of alarm going through him. 

“For love,” Joly said softly. “If they were together.”

Grantaire had never felt so slow or stupid, knowing he was starting to blush. “It’s not allowed.” Idiotic; he should have said it didn’t happen, that no one would ever want to, why would anyone want something like that? He swallowed, glancing at Joly and Bossuet with a creeping sense of realisation. “You can’t…you need a man and a woman for a family.” But of course, that wasn’t how they did things in Kalarime, he remembered. There was no marriage, and children stayed with their mother’s family. 

“In Ancelstierre,” Cosette said, drawing his attention back to her, “they say it is shameful.” She had a guarded look to her he hadn’t seen before. “It does not matter to us. So long as there are daughters, it does not matter what people’s desires are. In Ancelstierre they think this is wrong, that women should only lie with men, and men only with women. They think anything else is disgusting. What do you think?”

Grantaire’s stomach was twisted in knots, shock dulling his brain. “I…it’s not my business.” He cleared his throat, hoping his red face wasn’t visible in the gloom. “People have their own ways of doing things, makes no difference to me.”

It was the right answer, or close enough. Cosette relaxed and nodded, and Joly let out a sigh of relief. When Grantaire looked at him, a funny feeling pulsed through his body when he saw he’d taken Bossuet’s hand.

“Combeferre and Enjolras were together,” Cosette said in a low voice, reminding Grantaire why this subject had come up in the first place. “But not since the war. Combeferre lost everything, and Enjolras had to give up all his hopes of going back. It has been very hard for both of them. They do not speak anymore.”


	4. Combeferre

Combeferre went with Grantaire the next morning to check the traps he’d laid. The forest in the Old Kingdom was completely different to the woods Combeferre had known in Kalarime. There had only been a couple of small woods near Montleire, and they’d been too far away to play in as a child. He remembered only bits and pieces from their flight from Kalarime to Korrovia, so while he knew they’d gone through the woods then, he didn’t remember much of them. Pine trees, he was fairly sure, and bare earth covered in dead needles. 

Not the wild green land Grantaire led him into.

None of the trees seemed to be the same. Grantaire said they were alder, oak, ash, and beech, for the most part. To Combeferre they all looked much the same, varying in their size and height and stages of life. There was rarely a simple or obvious path through them. Grantaire moved with absolute certainty, and in near silence. Combeferre didn’t realise how much noise he was making until he paused for a moment and watched Grantaire go ahead a little.

He walked slowly, deliberately, each foot coming down in a way that seemed to make the least noise possible. When Combeferre tried to do the same, he couldn’t manage it at all, and he didn’t understand why he was making so much noise compared to Grantaire.

“Your boots,” Grantaire said, when he asked. He smiled and sank into an easy squat, brushing blunt fingers across Combeferre’s laces. “They’re not made for woodwalking. Hunters and trappers wear softer shoes, or no shoes at all.”

“No shoes?” Combeferre looked around in shock. He could see plenty of nettles from where they were, and they’d passed brambles and other thorny plants, and even without those, the ground was covered in all sorts of things that would hurt to walk on.

“Aye.” Grantaire stood up and lifted one foot, balancing on his other without a wobble. “I don’t bother with shoes in summer. Winter gets too cold, can’t go barefoot in snow. But these’re good shoes, Tellach made. See the sole?” He flexed his foot, and the whole shoe moved with it. It looked quite tight, Combeferre saw now he was looking. There were no laces at all, and it looked like the whole thing was made of one piece of material, with a puckered seam running right up the middle.

It wasn’t just the difference in their footwear. Grantaire showed Combeferre how he brought his feet down when he walked – lowering the ball of his foot first, rolling from outside to inside, then putting his heel down, and then putting his weight into it. When Combeferre tried to do it, he still made what seemed to be a lot of noise, and his balance was nowhere near as good as Grantaire’s. It wasn’t a way of walking that came naturally to him, and he couldn’t maintain it for very long.

The first snare Grantaire checked had a hedgehog in it (which Grantaire endearingly called a hagpig), so he was cheerful from the off. He tied the poor creature to the back of his belt by its back legs, and only noticed Combeferre staring after several minutes. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” Combeferre bit his lower lip, pressing the flesh between his teeth for a moment before going on, prompted by Grantaire’s uncertain frown. “It is something we have never done before, that is all.”

“What?”

“Killing animals like that.” He gestured to the dead hedgehog. “It just makes me sad, to see it.”

This was clearly an alien perspective to Grantaire, who frowned at him as though he’d just declared his intention to make rope from water. Though perhaps that was possible with Charter magic – what did Combeferre know?

“Didn’t you kill animals at home?” Grantaire asked, puzzled. “Weren’t there animals on your steadings? In your villages? Like chickens?”

“That’s different though.” Combeferre tried to find the words in Ancelstierren. Or was it Kingdom here? “Chickens are not wild, like a hedgehog. And it is the same for other farm animals. There are…” What was the word? He struggled for a few seconds, then gave up with a sigh. “Domestiqué. Made different by humans keeping them for food.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Maybe so. But you’ve got no farm animals, and neither have I. The woods provide.”

“It seems so cruel though. With a chicken, you can kill it quickly.” Combeferre mimed wringing a chicken’s neck, which he’d thankfully never had to do himself, but had watched his aunts and uncles do. “You can be sure it dies a clean death.”

“I can do that with these too.” Grantaire smiled at him and showed him the snare that had caught the hedgehog.

Watching him set them up yesterday, Combeferre had been amazed by the dexterity and swiftness of it, and the way Grantaire saw things Combeferre never would have noticed. Snares couldn’t just be set anywhere, he’d explained. They needed to be set somewhere a rabbit would actually run into them, which meant finding what he called the fosts – the trails naturally created by animals going through the woods – and putting traps on them directly. He’d attached his wire somehow to a branch he’d driven into the ground, and pulled down some growth around it so a rabbit would run into it and not past it.

The wire snare Grantaire showed him appeared perfectly ordinary, but from his displays of magic before, Combeferre knew that there were parts of it that were visible only to Grantaire. “Are they magic?” he asked, and felt a twinge of regret when Grantaire’s face fell.

“I forgot you can’t always see. Never mind.” He put the snare away again. “They’ve got Charter marks on ‘em, so when an animal’s caught, it dies then. Meat tastes bad if the animal’s been twisting about before it dies, so you want it dead quick.”

“Oh.” Combeferre relaxed a fraction. “That isn’t so bad.”

Grantaire smiled at him again. “It’ll be good for the pot too. Hagpig makes a good stew.”

“What does it taste like?” Combeferre asked, suddenly curious. He smiled to see Grantaire’s serious consideration of the question, his brow furrowed, lips pursed.

“Dark,” he said finally. “Bit like rabbit, but more fatty. Depends on the time of year, I’d say. Depends what it’s been eating, sometimes.”

“What the hedgehog has been eating?”

“Aye. Sometimes you get animals that’ve been eating a lot of one thing and you can tell.” Grantaire grinned at him. “Squirrels taste like nuts.”

Combeferre had no idea if he was lying or not, but couldn’t help laughing. “They do not! Chickens do not taste of seeds! Sheep and cow does not taste of grass!”

Grantaire laughed with him, his eyes crinkled at the edges. “Well, they don’t always. But they do a lot of the time. I’ll catch one and then you can know for sure.”

“I am not sure if I want to know.”

Grantaire just laughed again, the sound trailing into a wistful sigh. “Be better if I had a dog,” he said. “Hunting, I mean. Everything’s easier with a dog. Do you keep dogs, in Kalarime?”

“Of course. And cats.”

“Cats?” Grantaire smiled at him in disbelief that melted into realisation. “Oh – you’d have rats and mice to worry about, I suppose.”

“Yes.” Combeferre shrugged. “But lots of people love them for more than that. They are sacred animals, for us. No one would ever kill one.”

“Why’s that?”

“It would be bad luck.” Combeferre had never really thought about it before. “And why would you? Cats are so good. Useful, and…charming. Clever.”

“So’re dogs,” Grantaire pointed out. 

“Cats are different.” Combeferre tried to think of how to explain it. “Ah – do you have any gods? Or a god?”

Grantaire shook his head. “Travellers have no gods. Kingdom folk don’t either, I don’t think. Do you?”

“Yes. You have no correct way for saying it. They are one god, a pemme, not a woman or a man. I suppose you do not have those here?”

Grantaire shook his head, looking confused. “I don’t know what you mean. What’s a pam?”

“Pemme,” Combeferre corrected, hollowing the vowel a little. “It is the third gender. Homme, femme, pemme. Man, woman, pemme. I do not know how to translate it.” Grantaire looked, if anything, even more confused. Ancelstierrens, while not understanding or respecting it all the time, at least knew that pemmes existed. “It is for those who are born with different genitals, or whose spirits are not womanly or manly.” He pursed his lips. “Female or male, I mean. Does that make sense?”

“Different bits I get,” Grantaire said. “But how do you know if your spirit en’t a man or a woman?”

Combeferre shrugged. “How do you know you are a man?”

“Because…” Grantaire frowned and gestured to himself. “Well, I am one.”

“But without your body.” Combeferre touched his forehead, then the hollow of his throat, and his chest. “A person is made of more than flesh. You have your mind and your spirit also. How do you know you are a man in your mind and spirit?”

Grantaire looked forward again, thinking about it for almost a minute before he replied. “I s’pose,” he said slowly, “in my mind, it’s memories. That’s all a person is, at the end of the day – your memories make you who you are. And all my memories are of being a man, so I’m a man. I don’t know about my…spirit.” He frowned on the word. “I don’t know if that can be male at all. But I suppose it must be, if it’s me.”

Combeferre couldn’t hold back a smile. Most people outside Kalarime didn’t even try to understand. “It is something you know or not, I think. You know who you are, in your mind and spirit. It is easier to explain in Chellanian.”

Grantaire nodded. “I can understand that. There’s…ah!” He grinned, pointing ahead to something Combeferre couldn’t see. “A rabbit,” he explained, hurrying on, and Combeferre saw it as they drew closer – a large brown rabbit lying still in the undergrowth, a snare around its neck. Knowing it had died quickly didn’t stop the spasm of sympathy Combeferre felt at the sight.

Grantaire knelt to pick it up, tying it to his belt next to the hedgehog. “What was I saying,” he muttered, rolling up the snare and slipping it into one of his pockets. 

“Understanding Chellanian?”

Grantaire smiled and stood up. “Aye. Travellers have a tongue of our own, I know what it is to have a word for something in your own language and no words to explain it in another.”

“You have your own language?” Surprised for a moment, it turned quickly to excitement. “You never said! Do all Travellers speak it? Can you teach me some?”

“Ah.” Grantaire winced. “No.”

His excitement withered. “Why not?”

“I’m sorry.” Grantaire wouldn’t look at him, shrugging a shoulder awkwardly. “It’s our way. We don’t share our tongue with any who aren’t in the clans. It’s forbidden.”

“Why?” Combeferre asked again, bemused. Why anyone, any people, would choose to keep their language secret was beyond him. Surely all that would achieve was killing it slowly?

Grantaire shrugged again. “It’s our way.” He saw Combeferre’s frown and sighed. “It’s one of the only things we have left. It’s forbidden to share it with outsiders.”

“Are you not allowed to even speak it?” Combeferre raised his eyebrows, and felt himself start to blush at Grantaire’s look of surprise at his plaintive tone.

“We can,” Grantaire said shortly, and murmured a phrase in a rolling language spoken from the back of his throat. “But I can’t tell you what it means, or teach it to you. I shouldn’t’ve spoken it,” he added, brow furrowing as he looked away. Combeferre was an expert in guilt by now; he would have recognised it a mile off.

“I could not repeat it if I wanted to,” he assured Grantaire. “And I have no context for what it meant. Don’t worry.”

Grantaire gave him a small, guilty smile. “Thank you. Tell me more about pemmes. Have I met any?”

“Yes. You gave medicine to them.” Combeferre smiled back at him. “I do not know all their names, but there was Monsieur Thiel, and Meseme Rochfort, Mesame Doucet, Mesame Métisse…I think Mademoiselle Vignon? I cannot remember. Oh,” he remembered, his lip curling in distaste. “Montparnasse, of course.”

“Really?” Grantaire looked at him with his head cocked to one side. “How d’you know?”

“At home, in Kalarime,” Combeferre said slowly, trying to think of his words before saying them aloud. “There are certain signs given. It is like…there are certain ways of cutting the hair that show it, and paint, and the way you wear your clothes.”

“But…you called her a she, but, um. She looked like a man to me? Was I…should I have known? Have I been doing anything wrong?” Grantaire asked, sounding worried.

“No.” Combeferre sighed. “It is complicated. In Chellanian…it is not to say that it does not matter, or there is no difference, but in a way that is the case, or at least it is sometimes. Pemmes hold a special place in society, there are different customs and traditions for them, just as there are for men and women.” Combeferre frowned, trying to think of how to explain it. “It depends,” he said helplessly. “I call Montparnasse she because she had long hair when I first met her. Many people will call her him, or avoid those words altogether. Pemmes can move between the lines, they are not subject to the same rules of language. Some people change the way they address a pemme in the same sentence, some refer to them as though they are two people in one body, which…well, I always thought that quite confusing, but some pemmes prefer it. It is complicated.”

“Huh.” Grantaire appeared to take that in. “Alright. So…it wouldn’t matter if I said he or she for a pemme?”

Combeferre gave him a helpless sort of shrug. “It depends. In Chellanian, it is not a problem – a pemme will simply correct you if they do not like to be called he or she – but we have found in Ancelstierren, if someone were to call me a woman and address me as she, it might be a sign of disrespect. For Montparnasse, she does not care, I think. I have always called her she; I know others call him he. It does not matter.”

“Alright.” Grantaire nodded slowly. “But how can you tell by looking?”

He didn’t want to get it wrong and offend someone, Combeferre realised with a rush of relief. He wasn’t being nosy for the sake of it. “A pemme will often wear something here, around their neck.” Combeferre indicated his throat. “A necklace, or a bit of cloth. Only pemmes shave parts of their hair. Women shave nothing, men only their faces, and perhaps all of their heads when they are older. Pemmes sometimes shave half of the hair on their heads, or the sides. Montparnasse wears a cloth around her neck,” he added, taking pity on Grantaire, who was clearly trying to remember what Montparnasse had looked like when they’d seen her.

“Ah. Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” Combeferre smiled at him, and remembered how they’d gotten onto this topic in the first place. “Anyway – cats. Cats do not think of humans as gods, the way dogs do. Cats are Matré-Belen’s favourite animal.”

“Who?”

“The Creator. The first spirit.” Combeferre shrugged. “Matré-Belen is her title, but we call her Bel. She is a pemme, and cats are her favourite animals. That is why killing a cat would be bad luck.”

Grantaire smiled a slow smile, like he’d discovered something unexpectedly wonderful. Seeing it made the heat rise in Combeferre’s cheeks again, an answering smile leaping to his own lips before he could stop it. “How d’you know?” Grantaire asked. “That cats’re her favourite?”

“It is in the stories.” Combeferre looked away but couldn’t stop smiling. “I am not very faithful, but I like the stories.”

“Would you tell me one?”

“If you like.” Combeferre tried to think of a good one, racking his brains. “The best ones are sung,” he said while he thought. “But you need more than one person for that.”

Grantaire brightened. “Your people have lots of songs?”

“Oh yes, and…” A pang of homesickness and sorrow. “We make many instruments. Or we did, at home. You will hear more of it if you stay. People will begin to practice for midsummer. Every child learns to play something, at least one instrument. I played the piano and the hand drum.”

“The what?”

“It is a type of drum, you sit it on your leg and use a stick to sort of flick the skin.” Combeferre held his hands up, trying to demonstrate and feeling a fool as he did. Grantaire nodded though, to his relief.

“We have something like that. A boddy, we call it.”

“Kalarime is famous for its music,” Combeferre told him, a little sad. “We make the best instruments in the world. The best pianos, the best violins. There have been almost none since the war, I heard. Too many of the makers have been killed. Ah!” He cheered up. “I have a good story for you.”

Grantaire’s expression, which had been sober, lightened. “Alright, let’s hear it.”

“Long ago, after Matré-Belen had created the world but before the first people crawled out of the earth, there was a race between all the animals of the world…”

Combeferre considered sharing his worries with Grantaire as they walked back to the camp, but ultimately decided against it. He would discuss it with the others, perhaps, or they could just wait and see what would come of Grantaire sharing meat with their small group and no others. The way Grantaire saw it, he was simply repaying them for their hospitality and providing his own share of food so that he wouldn’t be taking from their limited stores. 

Combeferre doubted everybody else would see it that way. He understood their viewpoints, even though they were only imaginary at this point. Why should they profit from Grantaire’s presence when no one else in the camp was? Grantaire had found them through sheer luck, not through any effort on their parts. 

There was no way one man could provide extra food for a camp of over a thousand people, and Combeferre was sure Grantaire wouldn’t want to move from circle to circle each night, so that everyone got a piece of him, so to speak. He would rather leave, Combeferre just knew. Who wouldn’t? And he didn’t want Grantaire to go. For the first time in months, years, they were getting solid answers to some of their questions.

Things had begun to change after the Lightning Farm and the Night of Fire. All the Southerlings, from Kalarime, Korrovia, Iskeria, and Iznenia, had been there for that. The camps had been overflowing, and then they’d all been freed, all encouraged to follow the caravan of people heading north, and northwest, to the Lightning Farm.

It must have been on the minds of the others as well, because when they got back to the camp (to cries of delight from Matelote and Gibelotte, who relieved Grantaire of the two rabbits he’d caught and began skinning and preparing them at once for lunch) Gallia of all people asked Musichetta in Chellanian to ask Grantaire about it.

Grantaire could tell Gallia was the instigator, and looked between her and Musichetta curiously as they whispered. Fantine, the Boissys, Louison, and Feuilly were doing laundry at the stream, Valjean and Javert had disappeared to wherever they disappeared to, and Enjolras, Louis, and Corin were inside their family’s tent. Everybody else was outside in the weak sunlight, enjoying the fresh air.

Musichetta finally nodded, and looked at Grantaire. “Could you see the Night of Fire here?”

“What’s that?” Grantaire asked.

Musichetta exchanged a glance with Cosette, sitting next to her, and Cosette took over. Her Ancelstierren was better. “It was almost a year ago. Something…we still do not know the truth of it. We were told by the elders who came to this land to meet the prince that it was a sort of monster that broke free.”

“Oh!” Grantaire’s hands, which had been laying out the hedgehog on the ground in front of him, shuddered. He pulled them back into his lap quickly. “You mean the Destroyer.”

“Yes, that is the name they used.” Cosette frowned at him. “We were all there when it happened. We were told the monster wished to kill us all and take power from it, somehow.”

“By all,” Joly interrupted, “all Southerlings, not just Kalarimians. All of us in Ancelstierre at the time, we were all sent up to the Wall like sheep.”

Grantaire looked horrified. “I didn’t know that. I heard there was a great pillar of fire – I was further north last year, I didn’t see it, but everybody felt something. Like the Charter suddenly trembled.” He touched the centre of his forehead for a second. “It was horrible. I didn’t find out what happened for a time. You were actually there?”

Cosette nodded, and between her and Combeferre they told him how all of the camps had been opened, how they’d almost walked right into a trap designed to kill them all – “A neat way of getting rid of the Southerling problem,” Bossuet muttered nastily – and how if one of the Korrovian leaders hadn’t made a blood oath with the Old Kingdom prince to make him give all of them land, it would have worked. Rhonva’s Oath had saved them all. 

Their group had been in the middle of it, holding tight to each other so they wouldn’t be pulled apart by the crowd. It had been like the docks in Bajin, the camp they’d lived in in Korrovia before they’d secured their passage to Ancelstierre. Crowded and heaving, everybody shouting and shoving and snarling at each other, trying to stay on their feet and hold onto their belongings, if they had any left.

They’d had to turn back when the crowd began to move away from the Lightning Farm, and heard from the front that everyone was tearing up their papers, that it had been another Ancelstierren lie. No one had been very surprised. The fire had been awful. And then the explosion – everyone knew what to do, to get as close to the floor as possible and cover their heads. Musichetta even demonstrated for Grantaire. Still, there had been stories that there were people at the front who had been hypnotised by the fire, who had died or gone blind when the explosion had rocked the valley.

It was a week before they’d returned to their camps, with promises from Ancelstierrens and the Old Kingdom alike that Rhonva’s Oath would be upheld, and they really would go to the Old Kingdom. But not yet. “Always more waiting,” Musichetta sighed, and Yvette, silent so far, snorted an agreement.

“Wait, wait, wait,” she snapped. “Be patient, be patient, no room, not enough, come back later, give us money, give us gold, give us food. Greedy.” She made a furious noise through her teeth, a hiss like an angry cat. “Always we wait, wait, wait.”

Musichetta reached across Gallia to touch her hand. “We’re here now, maman,” she said in Chellanian. 

“And still we are waiting,” her mother said. “We’ve been in this camp for too long already! Waiting for land that will never come. Even the locals don’t know what’s going on. Fantine’s been gone too long,” she added, suddenly turning anxious. “Don’t you think? One of us should go and check on her.”

“I’ll go, Madame,” Bossuet said, getting to his feet. “I’ll be fastest. And!” He took a pot that Gibelotte was already holding out to him. “I can get more water while I do.” He gave them all such a sunny smile that even Yvette seemed reassured.

Gallia, however, was not to be deterred. “Ask him what it was,” she told Musichetta, clearly irritated that her Ancelstierren wasn’t up to the task. “The monster, was it from this country or not?”

Musichetta obediently translated, stumbling a little. Combeferre’s heart sank when Grantaire nodded. “There’s a song’s been making the rounds,” he said, “explains it a bit.” He sat up a little straighter and hummed, warming up his throat. “I’ll sing you a song of the long ago, Seven Shine the Shiners, oh! What did the Seven do, way back when? Why they wove the Charter then.” 

It was an odd tune, somehow both jaunty and chilling. Grantaire looked at none of them, but didn’t seem to be looking away either. “Five for the warp, from beginning to end. Two for the woof, to make and to mend. That’s the Seven, but what of the Nine, what of the two who chose not to shine?

“The Eighth did hide, hide all away, but the Seven caught him and made him pay. The Ninth was strong and fought with might, till lone Orannis was put out of sight. Broken in two, buried under the hill, forever to lie there, wishing us ill.”

Grantaire cleared his throat and looked at Gallia and Musichetta. “Orannis is the Destroyer. That’s what happened last year – he escaped, then got bound anew.”

“But he came from this world?” Joly asked, sounding worried, at the same time as Combeferre asked, “But what are the Shiners?”

Grantaire looked between them, and when Joly sighed and gestured to Combeferre, answered his question first. “The Shiners…I don’t know what they are, exactly. They were here at the beginning of the world, we’re told. I thought they were stories, but the Charter exists, so they do too. Or did.” He shrugged. “Nine Bright Shiners. Lots of Travellers think they were gods. Anyhow, they were powerful, and they made the Charter and bound the Destroyer. And they are from this world,” he addressed Joly. “But all of them are, not just the Destroyer. And he was defeated twice, so you don’t need to be afraid of him anymore.”

Combeferre blinked and grabbed Grantaire’s arm. “Wait – you just said this world, not this country. What do you mean?”

Grantaire frowned at him. “What I said. This en’t the same world as yours. Beyond the Wall is a different world. That’s why the time and the weather’s different.”

There was a scattering of whispers that then grew into a small uproar, which Grantaire looked stunned by. “You didn’t know?” he asked Combeferre, who realised that he was still holding onto Grantaire’s arm. He let go and shook his head. 

“What do you mean, a different world? Shut up,” he added in Chellanian to everyone else. “Let him explain, he probably doesn’t mean a different world.”

“Uh…” Grantaire pressed his fingertips together between his knees, brow wrinkled. At Combeferre’s nod, he licked his lips before speaking, seeming suddenly nervous. “This world en’t the same as the one you’re from. The Wall is the crossing point, the boundary. There’s another up north, far, far north, beyond the Steppe and the tribes. The Great Rift. The world beyond that’s dead though, so you can’t get to it.”

Combeferre felt a chill go through him. “What do you mean, dead?”

Grantaire shrugged. “S’dead. Nothing lives there. You can’t even breathe there, I heard. Light gets through from our side, but not far. Nothing but rock and dust. I’ve never seen it myself, we don’t tend to go so far north. The tribes that far aren’t fond of outsiders, I’ve heard.”

Bewildered looks and mutterings met this bizarre statement. Combeferre didn’t understand – couldn’t understand. No air? No light? “On a map,” he said, speaking before his thoughts were fully formed. “What would it look like?”

“Oh, like this.” Grantaire pulled his knife from his hip and turned it hilt-down to draw two lines in the dirt. “This is the Wall,” he pointed to the bottom one. “And this is the Rift.” The top one. “And everything between is our world.”

“What about…” Combeferre frowned and moved closer, then knelt on the ground next to Grantaire’s leg. “What about to the sides? Where does the boundary end?”

“It doesn’t, I don’t think.” Grantaire drew a line between the ones he’d drawn, vertically connecting them. “We’ve the coast to the east, and desert up to the northwest. All betwixt is the Kingdom. Beyond the desert, I’m not sure about, but I’ve heard stories of great monsters living there, huge wyrms and lizards and all sorts of beasts, and there are stories of nomads who live there, but I don’t know if they’re true, since I never heard of anyone trading with anyone west of the desert’s edge. Over the eastern sea is Paern, what used to be the Zahar Empire a long time ago. There’s better trade these days than there used to be, since the king returned, but it’s still scant.”

“Your magic,” Joly said before anyone else could speak. “The Charter – does it exist there?”

Grantaire shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so. It doesn’t work on the ocean, but maybe they have it on the land. Never heard of a Paern horseman being baptised though.” He shrugged.

“Maybe they have their own magic?” Combeferre suggested, half sure Grantaire would call him a fool. Or – no, that wasn’t his way. Gently explain reality to him, maybe. But Grantaire shrugged again and smiled crookedly.

“Maybe. Some worlds have different magic. Maybe they’re another world again, who can say?”

“Is that why our things…” Musichetta made a sad, expressive gesture with her hands, and Grantaire nodded.

“Likely. Some things can survive, some things can’t. There’s stories…” he hesitated, then looked down and pushed on. “There’s stories of certain animals not being able to cross a bridge twixt worlds, certain foods, certain illnesses.”

“Illnesses?” Joly, predictably, perked up at that. “What do you mean?”

Grantaire shrugged. “I’ve heard there’s sicknesses in Ancelstierre we never get, and sicknesses we get that they don’t.”

This started off a flurry of comparisons, and Combeferre watched as the lines Grantaire had drawn in the dirt were scuffed over by feet as Joly, Cosette, and Grantaire compared illnesses they knew in a slightly ridiculous attempt to ascertain which ones might not exist in this world. After that, Matelote asked Grantaire to show her and Gibelotte what to do with the hedgehog he’d brought them, and he applied himself eagerly to that task.

Combeferre watched from his place by the fire, and after a while noticed someone else watching too. Louis and Corin had come to sit just outside the entrance to the Brideau tent, and beyond them stood Enjolras, still partially hidden by the flap of the door and the shadow of the canvas. It was a usual habit of his now, but he hadn’t exhibited it for a few days. It was strange for Combeferre to realise that he’d picked up on it, however subconsciously.

Enjolras had always been a watcher, but he used to do it from the centre of the action, not the edge of it. He used to smile while he did it too, but he hadn’t smiled for a very long time. He watched Louis and Corin like a hawk, and the rest of them as well. Grantaire was now included in the bustle, so of course Enjolras’ eyes would fall on him, but Combeferre found himself on edge, worried that Enjolras would do or say something unkind, something to make Grantaire feel unwelcome.

But Grantaire was left alone, and eventually those who had been at the stream returned with wet laundry. Grantaire was comically fascinated with the idea of washing clothes as regularly as they did – “Doesn’t it wear them out?” – and they discovered from him that his clothes were woven with his magic to keep themselves mostly clean, so only needed washing when the situation was dire.

Grantaire spoke so much he grew hoarse, answering as many questions as they could put to him. Fantine spoke to him for a long time as dinner cooked, the smell drawing in hungry faces from all around them. Combeferre could see them, and knew the others were getting as tense as him. Strangers peering between and over the tops of the tents, their expressions yearning or angry or a mix of the two. 

But then Fantine sent Cosette off to another one of the big families, the Villettes, and she returned with the Villette matriarch and her oldest daughter. Neither could speak much Ancelstierren, but Combeferre gladly took the opportunity to squeeze in next to Grantaire and translate in whispers. “Fantine’s told her we have extra food today, thanks to your friendship and code of honour, and we would not like to hoard it for ourselves. Bounty must be shared, so she’s invited Madame and Mamselle Villette to eat with them this evening.”

Grantaire nodded, and gave the women a respectful dip of his head when they looked in his direction. “Smart,” he murmured. “Will it appease those corbs?” he tilted his head towards the edge of the circle, where jealous eyes were flashing in the dim light. “Meaning no disrespect,” he added quickly.

Combeferre could guess, but asked, “What’s a corb?”

“Um. A crow – a scavenger.”

“Oh.” Combeferre smiled. “Yes, then. Not all of them, but it shows Fantine wants to share, and if she invites the matriarchs, she can make friends with them. We could maybe…she might want to make a sort of council, for the camp, like we would have for a village at home.”

“We would need a name,” Joly whispered on his other side. “For the camp. And we will be moving soon, no? Why get attached now?”

“It could make things easier now,” Combeferre pointed out. “If we knew each other better, if we talked more.”

Joly looked sceptical, but they didn’t take it further. Debating it under Fantine and Madame Villette’s noses while they were talking would have been unforgivably rude.


	5. Grantaire

Summer approached like a slowly rising tide. The sun came up earlier every day, the ground between the tents began to be baked into hard paths, people began spending more time at the stream just to get out of the stuffiness of the camp. Spring was in full flood, the stream running high with snowmelt from the distant mountains, the woods teeming with new life.

Grantaire could have – should have – moved on weeks ago. He’d been trying to keep track of how long he’d stayed, and guessed it at coming up to a month. He went into the woods every day, bringing back what game he caught and passing it on to Matelote and Gibelotte. With so many mouths to feed, he put his shoes in his pack and practiced stalking again, making a bow and five arrows for himself. He’d not bothered for a long time, having only himself to feed, and he’d traded his old bow before winter had passed.

It paid off though. Many misses, many lost chances, but he brought down a doe and dragged her back to the camp, enlisting his new friends in her dismemberment. Matelote and Gibelotte were quick with their knives, and Joly was ready to get his hands bloody. Valjean scraped the hide and helped Grantaire make a frame to stretch it over. There was enough meat that Fantine sent Cosette and Enjolras around with gifts of raw parts to other circles. 

Grantaire made sure to give some to the guards as well, and gave them the skin as thanks for their protection of the camp. The Southerlings might not understand the pattern of patrols or the marks being laid in the ground and at the posts hammered at the compass points, but Grantaire did. There might have only been six guards for their whole camp, but they were all powerful mages, and Grantaire knew it was their efforts that were keeping the camp safe.

He was careful in the forest, when he went hunting and trapping, keeping close to either the camp-side edge or the Ratterlin or one of the streams that ran through the trees. He was well-fed and strong now, and even in the bright spring sunshine he kept his guard up. He let Bahorel know about the corpse of a bear he’d found, its insides hollowed out, its hide stinking of Free Magic. He saw traces of the Dead from time to time too, things he’d seen in the woods as long as he’d lived.

Dead animals, drained of blood and life, untouched by scavengers. Scraps of clothing, torn from the bodies of Hands as they shambled through the woods at night. Hollows and hillocks with bad smells about them, avoided by animals. Grantaire noted their places and avoided them. He had no interest in getting anywhere near the Dead.

Combeferre came with him most days, and they passed the time talking about anything that crossed their minds, which was a danger all its own.

There was a routine emerging, and Grantaire had always felt most comfortable with a routine to follow, a pattern to apply himself to. He and Combeferre rose with the sun, breakfasted with the others, went to the woods and either returned around midday to help the others with whatever needed doing or stayed there until the threat of dusk drove them back. 

Combeferre was getting better at woodwalking, but he was still far too loud to come hunting, so Grantaire only did that if he was alone. He would pass his prizes onto Matelote and Gibelotte, who were nothing but smiles to him now, and Fantine would send Cosette to invite as many people as their extra food could support to their circle for dinner. They would talk away the evening, and then go to sleep.

Once a week, the guards would receive a carriage of food and other necessities, either from across the Wall or from Belisaere, and a couple of people from each group would go to collect what they’d been allocated, and confirm how many people they were feeding. The guards hadn’t demanded anything from Grantaire in payment for allowing him passage in and out of the camp, but he’d given them gifts besides the deer skin anyway: mint they could chew to refresh themselves, and some tea he’d made by drying camomile flowers. It didn’t hurt to court the goodwill of those in charge, after all. But they were pleasant enough, and Jehan especially was kind and charming. He and Bahorel patrolled the perimeter of the camp together every day, renewing marks of protection and checking that the number of lives inside remained the same, that nothing Dead had infiltrated them.

Combeferre liked them, even spoke to them more than Grantaire did now when they met. They discussed baptism, which Jehan and Bahorel admitted would increase the Southerlings’ chances of survival significantly though they’d not heard of any plans to baptise anyone yet, and the practicalities of sending messages between the camps. Everyone was looking for someone, but there was no easy way to search.

By all rights, Grantaire should have felt ill at ease among so many strangers with no other Travellers to help if anything went wrong. But Fantine’s cleverness kept him shielded from the malice of anyone who wished him ill, and his regular gifts of meat and herbs kept the Brideaus and their group on his side. He was making what medicines he could as well, to replenish his depleted stock. That first foray into the camp with his boxes had cleaned him out, and there was much he couldn’t replace. 

At his request, the Nason sisters started a store of animal fat in one of the smaller pots. Grantaire’s thinking was that he could take a couple of days and use one of the big pots to make ointments, if he could get the right ingredients. With such limited space and limited vessels it was difficult to brew tonics. And of course the season was still early – most of what he needed could only be harvested in the late summer, or autumn. But he could provide some teas, and he could make some poultices. 

When Celendine went into labour, he stayed firmly outside the tent but handed over all the agrimony solution he’d managed to make to staunch any bleeding. It seemed to go well even without his help, thankfully. A healthy baby girl was born and named Liberté, and suddenly everyone seemed to be singing. Not a night passed without someone being pressed to sing some song or another, and Grantaire liked that more than anything. He could even understand some Chellanian now, which helped. Bossuet was persuading Musichetta to learn a song he’d composed so they could sing it together, and every day the few musicians the camp had would meet to practice playing together. Everyone was preparing for midsummer, which for Southerlings was a big event with a strong focus on music and performance.

He hadn’t felt so at ease since his family had died. Grantaire realised it one morning, lying awake in the dim shade of the tent, waiting for Combeferre and everyone else to stir. He wanted to stay, at least until he could be sure that his friends would be given what they had been promised. Jehan and Bahorel had said that building materials were being delivered to the site of the lands that would belong to the Southerlings, but it was a lot of work, and it was happening slowly. Food to keep the Southerlings alive was the greater priority, but Grantaire was already feeling the weight of every day slipping by. Every day spent in the camp was another day closer to autumn’s rains, and winter’s snows. 

But he was happy to wait with them, to make their worries his and allay them when he could. He had no desire to seek out a band of Travellers to join, and even less to return to his solitary wandering. He worried a little that he was becoming rooted, but when he imagined staying forever his mind flinched from it, as any Traveller’s would.

Combeferre decided not to join him in the woods that morning, staying to keep the others company. Grantaire had expected more of them to want to join him simply to escape the camp, but none had asked. They were wary of the unfamiliar land beyond the camp, and afraid of the woods since Combeferre, Joly, and Feuilly had nearly been killed by the Dead Hand.

So Grantaire set out alone, familiar enough along the path out of the camp to exchange nods with Southerlings who knew him by now. He was almost at the edge when someone started walking alongside him, and Grantaire started when he saw it was Enjolras. “Beg pardon.”

Enjolras hadn’t said anything to him since his outburst about the evil of kings. He hadn’t warmed to Grantaire, but he hadn’t been giving him any more nasty looks either. He still watched him, but not so much like a guard dog now. And he watched everyone, Grantaire had noticed. And if anyone wanted to know where someone was, they’d ask Enjolras, and he’d either know or could say when they’d left the circle and what they were most likely doing.

And after the deer, he’d given Grantaire something that had almost been a look of approval. Grantaire’s whole body had gone hot with it, a dangerous feeling he recognised all too well. It was in his nature to want approval from those hardest to please, and on top of that Enjolras was so handsome it made Grantaire sigh to think of him. Danger on danger. Normally, Grantaire would hide his eyes and pretend he couldn’t see Enjolras at all.

But the Southerlings weren’t like Travellers and Kingdom folk. They didn’t mind men being with men or women being with women. Since Cosette and the others had told Grantaire it was a permitted thing for their people, he’d been on the lookout for it, and he’d seen them at it. He’d seen men walking arm in arm with each other, and women holding hands, and he’d seen them kissing. In broad daylight, in front of anyone looking, no care in the world.

Grantaire could barely believe he’d seen such things. He’d known he wasn’t alone in the world, but he’d certainly felt it most of his life. The idea that in Kalarime men with desires like his were as common as they were in the camp was so strange he could hardly understand it. That they flaunted it in the open the way they did shocked him every time he saw them. He could barely look at Joly and Bossuet shaving each other without blushing for their brazenness. 

It was different for him. And he couldn’t imagine being bold enough to approach any of the men in the camp, and certainly not the ones he wanted most. Combeferre and Enjolras might both be bent, but as far as Grantaire was concerned, they were both forbidden. He shared a tent with Combeferre, for Charter’s sake, he couldn’t risk ruining that. And Enjolras was as untouchable as the moon.

He stood before Grantaire now, chestnut hair falling over his forehead, and asked, “Can I come today with you?” He would turn back at any hint of refusal, Grantaire could tell.

“Of course. You’re always welcome.” Grantaire looked down, chest clenching as he felt Enjolras’ eyes turn to him. “Anyone is,” he added.

“Merci,” Enjolras said after a moment, and Grantaire nodded.

“De rien.”

They walked in silence to the woods, and Grantaire wondered why Enjolras was doing this, why he hadn’t come before. Just as they reached the trees, Enjolras spoke. “Has Combeferre told you about the monarchy in Kalarime?”

Grantaire stared at him, trying to think. Surely Enjolras hadn’t come out here with him to get snippy about the king again. “No. Your mother has though, she said it’s like our royals here.”

“Yes. Did she tell you about Royer’s assassination? And Chesnier’s coup?”

“Only a little.” Grantaire relaxed a little as they came under the shade of the canopy, looking about reflexively for plants that might be of use. He brought a bag every time now, now that flowers and herbs were beginning to flourish in amounts he could collect. “She said Royer was…a salmon? And Chesnier was an eagle, and she and hers took over and had Royer killed and put someone called Charlotte on the throne and started rounding up all his supporters. That right?”

“The Salmon and Eagle Parties are political parties,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire nodded, remembering something to that effect, though he still wasn’t sure what it meant. “But the system of having a king in the first place is wrong. It does not work to have one person in charge of everything, to be the last word on all decisions. We have a saying – power corrupts. Have you heard this?”

“No,” Grantaire said slowly, “but I understand it.” Free Magic corruption was the first thing he thought of, of course, but he knew what Enjolras meant. If Enjolras was going to start attacking King Touchstone again, they were going to have words, but it didn’t seem like that was his aim here. Grantaire hoped it wasn’t.

“I do not trust easily,” Enjolras said, not looking at him. “I have never trusted the government. People who gain power become greedy and selfish, and treat their fellows poorly. They stop caring. How could you not, if you became so removed from the reality of life? In Kalarime, those in power came from a few families, very wealthy families, and they kept that wealth for themselves and kept the rest of us under their boots. The coup hardly mattered. It was one dictator traded for another. Do you understand what I mean?”

Grantaire wanted to. He’d never heard anyone speak like Enjolras in his life, without a single hesitation or pause, as if he was singing a song he already knew by heart. His heart was beating faster, and he wanted to say yes, he wanted Enjolras to think he understood, to be pleased, or at least satisfied. Instead, he said, “En’t a dictator the same as an autarch? They sound the same, from what people’ve said.”

Enjolras gave him a long look with an approving sort of edge to it. Nothing close to a smile, but it still made Grantaire’s chest clench alarmingly. “They are,” he said at last, looking forward again. “In effect. The autarch is a dictator in Iskeria. They have an autarch in Iznenia too, and a king in Korrovia. Power corrupts. It is the same in Ancelstierre, with their Prime Minister. This is why I said what I did to you, when you arrived. I do not trust any of them – autarchs, prime ministers, kings, or whatever they call themselves. A person is not born to be autarch by virtue of their blood. Leaders should be chosen by the people they serve, and there should never be only one.

“But,” he continued, just as Grantaire was steeling himself to respond. “I have been listening to you also. If what you say is true, then only your king could be king. Only one man could mend your magical stones and keep your lands safe from zombies. Is this so?”

Grantaire didn’t have Enjolras’ ease with words, and had to nod before he could speak, giving himself a second to think. “Aye. It can be a woman too, it doesn’t matter. It’ll be Queen Ellimere next, when the King dies.”

“But it can only ever be one person.”

“Aye.”

“And it is the same for the Abhorsen.” He hesitated on the word, just for a second, enough that Grantaire suspected he’d never said it out loud before.

“Aye. When she dies, the next will be Lirael Goldenhand.”

“And what happens if she dies with no children?”

Grantaire shrugged uncomfortably. “Nothing good. That’s what started the Interregnum, one of the lines being broken. Two hundred years of broken Charter stones and necromancers bringing back more and more Dead. If the Charter was left broken like that for long enough…I don’t know, maybe it’d die, or fade away, and we’d all…well. The Dead and all sorts of monsters’d put pay to us over time, like they almost did in the Interregnum. It’s why there’s plenty of space for all of your people,” he added, trying to bring the subject back to something more cheerful. “Farms for everyone and plenty of room.”

Enjolras nodded, and they fell back to silence. Grantaire returned to scouring the woods for useful plants, kneeling to cut down some agrimony in a clearing. When he stood again, Enjolras was faced away from him, his face tilted up to the sun with his eyes closed. His chestnut hair shone reddish gold in the light, the lines of his nose and jaw softened by it so it looked for a moment like he might smile. Grantaire was sure he’d never seen anyone so beautiful in his whole life, and the familiar sting of fear was worth the way he could drink his fill of the sight.

“Could I stay here?” Enjolras asked, turning to look at him as a cloud blew in front of the sun.

“What?” Grantaire hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Pardon – stay here?”

“It’s so quiet.” Enjolras looked past Grantaire, around at the clearing. “I haven’t been alone for…years. Could you leave me here for a bit? And come and get me when you leave?”

Grantaire’s first instinct was to refuse, for the perfectly good reason that it wouldn’t be safe. Enjolras had absolutely no means of protecting himself, not even a knife. But he’d asked Grantaire for something it was in his power to give, so Grantaire thought about it, looking around. There were no obvious tracks from bears or wolves, nor had he seen any in the last few days. They were definitely in range of a pack, because he’d heard them calling at night, but it was unlikely they’d pass through so close to the camp. Boars though, there were plenty of those, and they could be far more dangerous.

And of course that wasn’t even considering anything Dead or Free.

“I can cast a diamond of protection,” he said slowly. “I’ll make it wide, so you won’t just be sat on a stump for hours. It should hold off anything Dead, though you’re not likely to have trouble from anything during the day anyhow. Should hold off…some Free Magic creatures, but not…” Well, if anything serious came upon Enjolras, Grantaire wouldn’t have been able to protect him anyway, not with his limited knowledge of the Charter. “Should keep out animals too,” he said, and glanced back at Enjolras. “Would that be alright?”

Enjolras nodded, eyes bright. “Yes, thank you.”

“Alright. Stay here then.” He would encompass half the clearing, he decided, and a couple of easy to climb trees, just in case. If he could, anyway. He hadn’t needed to cast a diamond that big for a long time. He took a deep breath and walked what would be the perimeter, figuring out the size of it, guessing at how big he could make it. He wanted to give Enjolras as much space as he could.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asked, sounding curious. Grantaire looked over at him and gestured with his hands.

“I need to put the marks at the points of the compass.”

“What does it do?” Enjolras took a step closer. Grantaire stepped away and kept going, pretending he was just measuring the distance again.

“Protects you. I’ll seal it from the outside, I suppose.” He gestured for Enjolras to stand by the sturdy beech tree. “I’ll make this the middle, so you can climb it if you like, if you see something you want to hide from.” He tried, with difficulty, to ignore Enjolras’ eyes on him as he touched his Charter mark to orient himself, and turned to the east to cast the east mark. 

It was easier to keep one finger on his forehead, feeling the flow of the Charter all around him. The east mark came as he formed it in his mind, pulled it from the endless ocean of symbols, and traced it with his hand on the ground. He felt it as the mark manifested before him, golden and light, and drifted down his arm to settle into the earth.

Casting the diamond from the outside like this meant he was facing Enjolras when he stood, and he kept his eyes lowered as he walked to the next point and cast the south mark in the same way. Enjolras stayed silent until he’d finished, turning on the spot to keep watching him as he cast the west and north marks. “Done,” Grantaire said, straightening up after the last one.

“I could see them,” Enjolras said, frowning at the mark on the ground. “I _can_ see them. Why can’t I see it every time you use them?”

Grantaire shrugged. “I don’t know. People seem to be able to see some and not others. I was baptised at birth; I don’t know what it’s like not to be part of the Charter. You sure you want me to go?”

Enjolras met his eyes and nodded, a firm jerk of his head. “Yes, please.”

“As you like.” Grantaire did a quick mental run of his route and said, “I’ll be back in a couple of hours maybe. If I’m not back by noon, could you find your way back alone?”

“Yes.”

Grantaire nodded, wishing he had a way to somehow keep an eye on Enjolras without being there. “Alright.” He lifted an awkward hand in farewell, then turned away and headed deeper into the woods.

He was arse over teakettle for Enjolras, as his grandfather would’ve said, Grantaire reflected miserably as he walked. Except his grandfather never would’ve said that, since if Grantaire had told him he cared for men over women, his grandfather would’ve tried to beat it out of him. Though really, the idea of telling him was so ridiculous Grantaire hadn’t even considered it, even when he’d been alive.

And of course, he was arse over teakettle for Combeferre as well, because how could he not be? The man was like something out of a song, all kindness and grace and handsome to boot. He could have revealed that he was a prince in disguise, and Grantaire would have believed it.

Grantaire was a little gone over Joly and Bossuet too, if he was honest with himself. If he’d been a woman, he’d be what his grandfather called a flimsy, always taken with the latest man to pay her a compliment or flash her a smile. He’d been easy for the two boys he’d tumbled in the past, after all. A few looks, a surreptitious nod or two, and he’d let himself be led by the nose. Anything for a bit of that closeness, a bit of warmth, the terrifying, brilliant rush of sex with someone like him.

Grantaire had to stop and sit down against a tree for a bit, hiding his face in his hands even though there wasn’t anyone around to see. He was an idiot, he knew it, but he was an idiot with an imagination, and being all the way out here was the only place to get any privacy. He undid his trousers and pushed his hand in, tipping his head back against the tree and keeping his free hand in his hair, holding on.

Enjolras and Combeferre. Grantaire hadn’t seen them move within five feet of each other the whole time he’d been living in the camp, but he could still imagine them together. Combeferre was taller and broader, but Enjolras was fierce. He’d pull Combeferre’s mouth down to his, he’d walk Combeferre backwards until he was leaning against something. They would kiss and kiss, their hands…their hands everywhere, all over each other, Enjolras’ sliding under Combeferre’s shirt, Combeferre’s buried in Enjolras’ wavy chestnut hair (Grantaire’s hand clenched a fistful of his own, his eyes squeezed shut).

He could picture it as if he’d seen it happen, how they’d look together. How their hands would feel on him. He spat twice into his palm and kept going, indulging the fantasy. Combeferre behind him, solid as a tree, holding Grantaire in place for Enjolras to touch. Enjolras’ mouth, his hands, his eyes – he watched everything, of course he would watch Grantaire too.

Grantaire bit his lip, ignoring his too-loud breathing. Imagining it, remembering what it had felt like to be touched by Tomas, and by Olander, the heat of their bodies, the wetness of their mouths. He’d wanted more, both times. Enjolras would kiss him everywhere, Combeferre’s hands would smooth down Grantaire’s chest to his legs, he would be surrounded by them, they would take him apart. 

He came faster than usual, forcing himself on rather than drawing it out the way he usually did. He’d never let himself imagine either Combeferre or Enjolras before, focusing on memories of Tomas and Olander instead, and to do so now felt almost disrespectful. Good at the same time though, the pleasure of it leaving him wrung-out and shaky against the tree for several minutes.

It seemed to take a long time for his sense to return. He wiped his hand on the grass, pushed himself to his feet, did up his trousers, and walked on, his feet feeling clumsier than usual. He’d never be able to hunt anything with his mind all tangled the way it was, but he didn’t really have time for it anyway. He needed to check his traps and get back to Enjolras, and just hope he could meet the man’s eyes without blushing like a maid.

Everyone had to know by now that any time Combeferre didn’t join Grantaire on his daily trips to the woods, Enjolras went with him instead, but nobody said a word. Not even Combeferre, who began coming with Grantaire exactly half the times he went, giving Enjolras an equal share.

Not that Grantaire conversed with Enjolras the way he did Combeferre. He meandered, with Combeferre. They could talk about anything, whatever their minds turned to. Enjolras always had a purpose, usually turned to practical matters. He wanted to know about the risks and dangers of the Kingdom especially – everything Grantaire knew, he wanted to know. Animals, plants, the kinds of people, and especially the kinds of monsters.

But while Combeferre would stay at his side as Grantaire relaid his traps and harvested flowers and herbs that were becoming more and more plentiful as summer progressed, Enjolras would always stop and let Grantaire lay a diamond of protection so that Grantaire could hunt, and Enjolras could be alone for a while.

Grantaire still couldn’t really understand what it must be like, to not have had a moment’s solitude for so many years. If he wanted to be alone with his thoughts, all he’d ever needed to do was pick a direction and walk. Enjolras hadn’t been alone since the Brideaus had fled Kalarime. 

Finally, close to two months after Grantaire had arrived, Bahorel and Jehan announced that the building materials were being delivered to the lands below the westway, and that a register would be sent round all the camps to establish which households wanted farms, and how big they would have to be. It would come to them first, delivered after midsummer. And that started its own flurry of panic, because midsummer was very important to all the Southerlings.

“The festival of music,” Combeferre explained, a day later in the woods. “It’s a huge event. People work all year on projects they want to show off. You know Bossuet’s been composing – he can’t keep it a secret with so little space to hide. There is a lot of dancing as well.” He gave Grantaire a rare grin. “We will have to teach you.”

“I like dancing.” Grantaire hadn’t danced at the Traveller’s Moot last year, but that had been out of grief and loneliness. He’d missed his chance, but he’d like another. “What sort of dances do you have?”

“Oh, lots.” Combeferre was clearly looking forward to it as well, his eyes bright with excitement. “My favourite is the troisquelle. You dance it with two other people, and there is a lot of spinning. I used to…I used to dance it with Enjolras and Courfeyrac.” From what little he’d told Grantaire, he knew Courfeyrac had been their best friend, and they’d been separated in the journey to Ancelstierre.

“A dance for three?” Grantaire couldn’t imagine how it would work.

“Yes, and there is the quadrille too, which is a dance for four, and contra dances which have long lines of dancers. Do Travellers have dances?”

“Aye, lots. Mostly in pairs though, or long lines like…contra dances? They sound the same. Two lines of people facing each other?”

“Yes.” Combeferre smiled at him. “We dance in pairs also. And there are some dances only danced by men, and some only by women, and some only by pemmes.”

“We have…some things like that,” Grantaire said cautiously. He was getting easier and easier with telling Combeferre things few knew if they weren’t Travellers themselves, and though it wasn’t forbidden to share them, it still made him feel a little guilty each time. “We have a style of…well, it en’t fighting, and it en’t tumbling. It’s called Achanada.”

“Akanada,” Combeferre repeated, frowning as he messed up the sounds. “Ach… _ch, ch_. Is that right?” He was rolling the sound like a cat’s purr rather than keeping it in his throat, and Grantaire couldn’t help grinning.

“More like _ha_ ,” he said, making the sound a couple of times for Combeferre to hear again. “Open your mouth more, and your throat. Say _ha_ like you’re coughing it.”

Combeferre laughed. “ _Ha._ A _ch_ anada.” He looked at Grantaire for approval, and he nodded, smiling.

“Perfect.” 

“Achanada,” Combeferre repeated, apparently for the pure pleasure of it. “Achanada. And it is like a fight?”

“An art of fighting.” Grantaire pursed his lips. “Like…pretend fighting, I s’pose. But like a dance too – it’s got certain moves and motions you learn. Everyone learns a little bit. My…my cousin, he was very good at it, we used to do it together.” He swallowed. “He was clumsy as a newborn kitten most times, but if he learned a move for achanada he never forgot it.”

“Can you…” Combeferre gestured, hesitating suddenly. “I mean, if it is permitted, or…”

“We perform it for people,” Grantaire reassured him. “I can’t here, there’s no space, and I’m well out of practice. Maybe once we’re out of the trees.” And that would give him time to figure out which moves he could reliably remember and of those which he wouldn’t mess up. “But like I was saying, there’s styles only for men and others only for women. You’d never mix them.”

Combeferre nodded thoughtfully, and gave him a sideways look that Grantaire recognised by now as preceding a question that would tie him in knots. And sure enough – “Would you mind dancing with other men?”

Every time he asked a question like that, Grantaire was sure Combeferre knew, or had at least guessed. He’d thought about snapping at him, or about asking him outright whether he knew what Grantaire was, but never dared. His courage had always been a failing thing. The prospect of dancing with other men though, of touching them, being in the circle of someone else’s arms – 

“I’ve never tried,” he muttered at last. “Can’t really imagine it.”

“It would not be permitted among your people?”

“Never.”

Combeferre made a thoughtful noise. When Grantaire looked at him, he was looking up at the trees above them with a small frown on his face. “I have always taken it for granted,” he said quietly, “you know? That is something I cannot imagine.”

“What?”

“Having to hide that part of myself.” Combeferre glanced at him, and Grantaire looked away quickly. “It seems so sad. We knew it was not acceptable in Ancelstierre, but even when we were there we were surrounded by our own people, and we did not have to obey their odd rules on such personal matters. Are there really none among your people who…?”

Grantaire shook his head, his chest hurting. “You’d be exiled. Never allowed back. It’d be…it’d be better to hide it, to pretend.” Like he’d always planned to. “Better to hide one part of yourself than lose your people.”

“Have you not even heard of a Traveller like me?” Combeferre asked, sounding sad. As if it mattered to him. Grantaire buried the spike of anger and shook his head. 

“It’s not the sort’ve thing you’d talk about. You’d say…I don’t know, you’d say they’d died. None of their family would want to bear the shame of it, having someone like that as your kin.”

“Someone like that?” Combeferre repeated, hurt, and Grantaire’s temper shuddered.

“Someone wrong,” he snapped. “It’s not _right_ for a Traveller. It’s all wrong, it’s _bent_. People aren’t meant to be like that.” His throat was tight, and Combeferre walked in silence next to him for almost an entire minute. Grantaire’s head ached, and he was sweating both from the heat of the day and the fear of what he’d done. What if Combeferre thought he thought that of him? Of Joly and Bossuet? And all the others – Cosette had freely mentioned her interest in both men and women, and Louison had begun frequenting another group’s circle to sit closer to a woman who was as alone in the world as she was. And of course, there was Enjolras as well. 

“Do you think that of me?” Combeferre asked, deceptively quiet.

Grantaire clenched his fists and stopped where he was. He wasn’t seeing anything clearly anyway – he’d miss the body of a deer if it was lying in front of him in this state. 

No one was left, he reminded himself. Everyone who would have cared was dead. Combeferre was unlikely to meet any other Travellers, and if he did, he wouldn’t share this. He was smarter than that, and kinder too. What did it matter? Who was Grantaire keeping his secrets for?

“I meant it of me,” he muttered at last, rubbing one hand across his eyes. “I’m… _I’m_ the one who’s bent, by my people’s ways. I can’t…we exist, but I’d never…I would’ve married a girl,” he said helplessly into his hand. “I would’ve given her children, my ma would’ve helped raise them, we would’ve been happy enough. It’s worth having to hide it till I die if…but they’re all dead now, so it doesn’t matter.”

There were tears in his eyes; he rubbed them away quickly and kept his face turned from Combeferre, even when Combeferre came closer and put a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t need your pity,” he muttered. “It would’ve been a good life.”

“I know.” Combeferre squeezed his shoulder, and Grantaire was horribly grateful that he didn’t take it away again. “My life was going to be different too.”

Grantaire took several deep breaths, getting a grip on himself. “Did you know?” 

“No. I…suspected, once or twice, but it is not clever to play guessing games with something like this. I thought also you might think us perverted.”

“I should.” Grantaire sighed and let his hand drop back to his side. “I would, if I was a proper man.”

Combeferre’s grip on his shoulder went tight again. “You are a proper man,” he said, sounding almost angry. Grantaire was so startled he looked up at him, and Combeferre gazed back fiercely. “You are one of the best men I have ever met, Grantaire. From the very first moment, you have been nothing but good to us.” His hand on Grantaire’s shoulder eased, and his lips twitched, though his eyes turned tired. “You don’t know what it is like for us to be hated, and treated badly, and thrown aside like rubbish, and then to be cared for.” His smile grew a little. “You have shown yourself to be the best of friends to us. To me.” He let go, and Grantaire felt the place where his hand had been turn cold. “You are perfect as you are.”

“Careful now.” Grantaire drew away and rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t give me airs.”

“You could do with some air.” Combeferre smiled at him. “You can be easy with us, Grantaire. To us, you are as right as anyone else.”

Grantaire swallowed and pointed ahead at the path. “We…we’d best keep going. I should try and get more mint, for Matelote.”

“Of course.” Combeferre kept smiling as they walked on, content to walk in silence, and then speak of other things. Later, when they emerged from the woods at the end of the day, Grantaire demonstrated a few achanada moves. He could still fall into a roll and spring up onto his feet again with no problems, and spinning on his hands had always been his favourite move. He was out of breath after it, but gave an applauding Combeferre a deep bow.

“Thank’ee, kind sir, some coins’d go well for me, some coins, mister, just a few coins to tide me over.” He grinned, breathing heavily. “I can keep that up for hours, pattering people into paying. Just a few coins, missus, a few coins for my dinner! Coins for the baby, mum, coins for the children!”

“It is very good,” Combeferre laughed. “You said it is better with someone else?”

“Aye – it’s normally done in pairs. So you’ve got someone to fight, see?”

“Yes, I see. I would like to see,” he added as they started walking back to the camp. “Properly.”

“It’s a sight. There’s players who go so fast you hardly see them.” Grantaire smiled. “It’s beautiful.”

He felt lighter, as they walked back into the camp. It was almost the same feeling as returning to his family’s van after a day away, feeling the safety and familiarity wrapping around him like a warm cloak. He’d told Combeferre what he was, and in the end it hadn’t even been difficult. He’d never told anyone before, not with words. It was like a miracle to discover that he could.

“What were the camps like?” Grantaire asked Enjolras. He’d been screwing up his courage since they’d entered the trees, and he nearly flinched when Enjolras looked at him sharply. 

“Where? In Korrovia or Ancelstierre?”

“Both.” Oddly, Enjolras’ directness bolstered him.

“Combeferre does not speak of them?”

“Not really.” Grantaire frowned. “He…no. He doesn’t speak of things that happened in the middle, really. And he doesn’t talk much about himself.”

“That sounds like him.” A strange expression passed across his face for a second, and was gone. “Why would you ask me, over anybody else?”

Grantaire blushed, and hoped Enjolras wouldn’t see. What could he say to that? “I just thought…I don’t know. You always say things so clearly. You don’t…well, you don’t do what I’m doing now,” he said, exasperated. “You don’t get stuck, or I’ve never heard it if you have. You speak plain. You don’t have to, if you don’t want. I just thought I’d ask.”

Enjolras nodded, serious as ever. “Bajin was the name of the camp we lived in in Korrovia. It was just outside of Basque, their biggest port town. Tens of thousands of people went there, coming through the Jorstschi Pass as we did. It took us weeks. And we were in Bajin for a year.” Enjolras paused. “It was very busy and chaotic. The noise was constant. There were no tents or buildings to shelter in. We would go into Basquet and steal from their bins for food and whatever we could find for shelter. It was freezing cold, and there was no food. My great-uncle Jean and my grandmother Marguerite died there, because of the cold and the hunger. We were starving, and there was nowhere else to go. Korrovia was at war, of course, and there were two massacres while we were in Bajin.”

“Massacres?” Grantaire repeated, wondering if he’d underestimated how much Combeferre and the others didn’t speak of. He felt almost like Enjolras had given him a blow to the head. He could barely imagine the things he was describing.

“Do you know what a massacre is?” Enjolras asked him, and again Grantaire was almost surprised that it wasn’t accusatory or sharp. He shook his head. “It is the intentional slaughter of a large group of people.”

“Oh. Is that a Chellanian word then?”

“Yes.” Enjolras looked forward, his gaze distant. “Two massacres, and many smaller killings. The people in Basque would attack the camp, because they did not want us there, and we kept coming. From Kalarime and Iznenia and Iskeria and other parts of Korrovia, all of us together, fighting and desperate. The massacres were ordered by the General of the Korrovian Imperial Army. They bombed Bajin to cut down our numbers. They killed off half the camp the first time, and a third the second.” He spoke as though it was a lesson, as though it had happened to someone else.

Grantaire wasn’t watching the path anymore. He said, “I’ve heard people talk of bombs, but I’m still not sure what they are. Something that can be dropped from a machine in the air and explodes when it hits the ground?” He wasn’t all too clear on what an explosion was either, but he was pretty sure it was fiery, and definitely destructive.

“Yes. The impact causes the explosion, and the damage is enormous. And there was nowhere to hide. My family, we had managed to build a sort of shack. It fell down around us, and we had to leave it to burn. We hid in the hills behind Basque, and came back when it was over.” Enjolras’ shoulders slumped. “They did not want us there, but we had nowhere else to go. It took us a year to buy passage on a ship to Ancelstierre. That is where we had to leave Courfeyrac’s family behind.” For the first time, a shred of pain entered his voice.

Grantaire wanted to reach out and touch his arm, offer a little comfort. He didn’t, and they kept walking. “What about in Ancelstierre?” he asked cautiously.

“We lost two more on the way.” Enjolras sounded blank again. “My great-aunt Lucie, and my aunt Elise. They fell overboard and drowned. Louis and Corin won’t talk about it, or about Aline.”

“Aline?”

“Their little sister, my cousin. She was shot on the way to Korrovia, at the same time as Courfeyrac’s grandmothers and great-grandmother. We were seen by soldiers in the day and had to run. Courfeyrac’s grandmothers and great-grandmother knew they would not be able to keep up, so they went in a different direction. Elise was carrying Aline, but she was shot all the same. It could have been any of us. There was blood everywhere. We had to leave her body in the woods, under a tree. There was no time to bury her, and she was too big to take with us.”

Grantaire’s throat was thick with horror and unshed tears. “You were there?”

“Yes. When we left Kalarime we split into five groups. I was with my uncle and some of Courfeyrac’s family. My mother went with Yvette, and I knew Cosette and Musichetta would protect Combeferre, so he went with them. They went faster, and we did not find them again in Bajin for almost two months. We did not even know if they were alive. We never found the fifth group, that was one part of Courfeyrac’s family. They must have been killed on the way.” 

They walked in silence for a few minutes, which gave Grantaire a chance to get himself under control. He could see why none of the others liked to talk about it. He’d want to forget such awful things as well.

“The camps were better in Ancelstierre,” Enjolras said suddenly, very quiet. “They were organised, and cleaner. But we were kept in them like animals. At least in Bajin there were no fences or guards. Ancelstierre was just as difficult, in many ways. And there are fences in our heads now. People are afraid to go beyond the borders of our camp here.”

“It en’t exactly safe,” Grantaire said. “Without the Charter to protect you, it wouldn’t be smart.”

“So you say.” Enjolras sighed and they slowed to a stop. “Could you –”

“Of course.” Grantaire was more practiced at casting large diamonds of protection now, though he always kept an easy to climb tree in the middle. He always came back to find Enjolras sitting either in the branches or on the forest floor below it, looking more relaxed than he ever did in the camp. “Thank you,” Grantaire said, after he’d cast the diamond. “For telling me about all that. And I’m sorry it happened.”

Enjolras sat down at the base of the trunk and gave him a tired look. “Nobody else wants to hear about it. It is all I can ever think about. I should be thanking you.”

“Don’t.” Grantaire shook his head. “Nothing to thank me for. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Stay safe.”

Grantaire paused, about to turn away, and felt himself smile. Enjolras had never said that before. “I will.”


	6. Enjolras

Enjolras couldn’t remember, but thought the last time he’d been alone before leaving Kalarime was probably the night before Luc and Paul were killed. His mother’s cousins had tried to stop a public hanging, and were shot for their attempt. No one had wanted to be alone after that. His mother had wanted to keep him and Cosette close, and Combeferre came with them by default, because they were hiding him from the people who had murdered his family.

His entire family.

Enjolras’ family was small, compared to many in rural Kalarime. Combeferre’s family had been so large it had divided three times in the last two generations alone, but the police had hunted down every last one. Combeferre had stayed hidden in their house, practically catatonic, while the new laws and militia reinforcements imposed themselves further on the village.

He couldn’t have been alone for long. He and Combeferre had been sharing his bed. But Cosette had taken Combeferre to try and make him eat something, and Enjolras must have been alone for an hour or so.

That had been over five years ago now. And Bel only knew what year it was here in this different world, on the other side of Ancelstierre’s cursed Wall. The war had begun in Iskeria in June 1925. When they’d crossed the Wall, it had been June 1931, but it wasn’t June in the Old Kingdom yet. Enjolras couldn’t believe so many people had protested when Grantaire had told them this was a different world – it was obvious to anyone with any sense.

It was so peaceful in the woods. Musichetta spoke as though Grantaire ought to have been given a medal for venturing in every day, but Enjolras had thought him lucky from the start. And in this magical circle, he was safe. He didn’t fully understand Grantaire’s magic or its limitations, but he’d heard what it had done to the zombie that had chased Combeferre, Feuilly, and Joly, and Combeferre had been safe with Grantaire every time they’d gone to the woods together. 

He could rest easier here than anywhere else. Out in the woods on his own, the worst that could happen was his own death, and that wasn’t so bad. And it was _quiet_ here. He could close his eyes and only hear the wind in the leaves and the constant birdsong. When was the last time he’d heard so little? It was impossible to find it in the camp. Even if he stayed in the tent with Louis and Corin all day, they could hear people talking outside.

He’d asked the boys if they wanted to come to the forest with him, but they’d exchanged a look and Louis had shaken his head, so that was that. 

He let himself doze, leaning against the tree and relaxing so much he almost didn’t hear the sound of Grantaire’s footsteps. He walked very quietly through the woods, but Enjolras always heard him. He stood up and waited, watching as Grantaire approached through the trees. A rabbit hung from his belt, a badger over his back, and there was greenery sprouting from the bag he had slung across his shoulder. He gave Enjolras a smile and nod in greeting and dismantled the circle with a gesture.

The best thing about Grantaire, in Enjolras’ opinion, was how he had continued to help them when he could have left. The second best though was definitely the way he didn’t try to make Enjolras talk. He asked questions, and if he was speaking he could continue for minutes unbroken, but he didn’t speak to hear the sound of his own voice or try to engage Enjolras in stupid conversation about nothing important.

And he listened. No one else wanted to. Of course, they had all lived through it themselves, and Enjolras understood why they didn’t want to, but he did. He didn’t want to upset anyone or remind them of their grief, but he couldn’t stand the way everyone seemed to be so determined to forget. Grantaire listened when he talked about it, and asked him to continue. 

Enjolras’ tension returned as they reached the camp. All the noise, all the people, it all put him on edge and reminded him of Bajin. And when he was in their circle of tents, he couldn’t stop checking on everyone and watching them. It infuriated Musichetta and Gallia, and annoyed everyone else, but he couldn’t help it. It was automatic by now.

He counted everyone off as he saw them. His mother, Yvette, Cosette, Chetta, Gallia, and Feuilly in front of the Brideau tent. Matelote and Gibelotte in front of their tent, doing each other’s hair. Joly and Bossuet talking quietly near them. The flap to Madame Boissy’s tent was closed, and neither she nor Irma were in sight. Valjean and Javert were missing too, as were Combeferre and Louison. Louis and Corin would be in the tent.

“Combeferre’s gone to the latrines,” Cosette called, not looking up from the game of knucklebones she was playing with Gallia. “Louison’s with her sweetheart. Valjean and Javert are at the stream.”

Enjolras muttered his thanks as he walked past her and into the tent, just to double check that Louis and Corin were there.

They were, silently talking to each other in the language of gestures and hand movements they’d invented. Elise had stopped taking care of them after Aline had been shot, and Enjolras had tried to step into the gap, to be the sort of uncle Guillaume had been to him. It had been hard at first, when the boys had been younger. Hard in Bajin, when they’d both cried so much, and hard in Ancelstierre, when they’d refused to let him out of their sight for even a second. They’d accompanied him to the latrine, that was how afraid they were of losing him the way they’d lose Elise.

She’d been there one moment and gone the next. A shadow clinging to the railing of the boat, and then empty space. Enjolras hadn’t even heard a splash. 

The boys had gotten a little better after the Lightning Farm. Perhaps they simply had no more fear left. Their whole lives had been conflict and terror – if Enjolras felt numb sometimes, little wonder they did, having known nothing else. They had fewer nightmares, and Louis especially was showing more independence. The relative quiet of the Old Kingdom seemed to be doing them good. Enjolras certainly preferred it to Ancelstierre. Even if it was dangerous, at least the Old Kingdom seemed to have fewer politicians and a more welcoming approach to their arrival. No one had even tried to attack or trick them so far, though that might have something to do with how they hadn’t met anyone who wasn’t either a guard or Grantaire.

The guards were decent though, Enjolras had to admit. And half of them were women, which put them a far step above Ancelstierre, in his opinion. 

Louis and Corin looked around when they saw him enter, and Enjolras nodded a hello. They didn’t like it when he used their secret sign language. “Good afternoon,” he said quietly. “Would you like company?”

Louis shook his head, so Enjolras went to sit in his usual spot by the entrance. It had a perfect view for keeping an eye on everyone while keeping himself out of the action. He watched in silence, eyes flicking between each little group and pair, lingering on Feuilly, whispering about something to Yvette. He was growing his hair long, and Enjolras was waiting for him to tie a string around his neck. Why he was hesitating for so long, Enjolras didn’t know, but he was sure it was only a matter of time.

Bossuet hadn’t let Joly out of his sight since the zombie in the woods. Musichetta was shooting him irritated little looks. Grantaire was helping Matelote and Gibelotte prepare the rabbit and hedgehogs, and smiling as he showed them a new plant he’d found. Something with big, flared leaves that could be eaten raw, if his demonstration was anything to go by.

Combeferre returned, and his smile when he saw Grantaire was like taking a knife to the chest for Enjolras. He hoped Grantaire would be good to him, when they finally came together. That was only a matter of time as well. They were sharing a tent, for goodness sakes, and anyone could see the way they looked at each other. He knew Combeferre would be good to Grantaire. Combeferre was incapable of being anything else.

It wasn’t quite envy that made his stomach clench and his heart ache, and it wasn’t entirely regret. He’d let Combeferre go on purpose, and he’d pushed him away and kept him at a distance ever since. They hadn’t kissed since the earliest days of Bajin, hadn’t spoken since the camp in Ancelstierre. Combeferre deserved better than him. Combeferre deserved the best of everything. Enjolras had been worthy of him once, but not now. Grantaire could make Combeferre happy – he already did make him happy. 

He wanted Combeferre to be happy and content more than anything, and Grantaire could be part of that. He could stay for however long he would, and he would make Combeferre smile, and they would talk for hours and never tire of each other’s company and curl close together at night to stay warm. They both deserved that, and Enjolras wanted them to have it. 

He looked away from them and glanced around the edges of the circle again. The brothers in the tent that backed onto the Boissys’ were arguing again. A man was telling a story to a child, or children. Someone was complaining about having no more bread left. People were constantly moving, most of them taller than the tents. Enjolras watched them, watched his family, watched the fire, watched the sky.

If he heard people begin to scream, if he heard gunshots, he would get everyone into the Brideau tent. They would tilt their mats up against the canvas walls and crouch low to the earth, to try and avoid the bullets. If attackers came in, Enjolras would use the club-size branch he kept inside the entrance at all times and try to bring them down and give everybody else the chance to get out. He would try to drag an attacker to the ground.

If an attacker walked into their circle with a gun, Enjolras would take the branch and fly at them. He would distract them, but try to move fast, try to avoid getting shot. 

If a zombie, or more than one, got this far into the camp, Enjolras knew what to do from Grantaire. They would run for the stream, and try to put the running water between them and the monsters. He would use the branch again, try to keep them back long enough for everybody else to get away. If they came from the direction of the river, he could do the same – Fantine or Cosette would lead the group through the camp to the water, they would keep everyone safe.

If someone cut through the back of the tent and attacked Louis and Corin, Enjolras would leap at them without getting the branch. There might not be time. 

If he heard the groan of a skatzi bomber plane, he would get Louis and Corin and run. The Brideau tent was big; it might look like a tempting target from the air. He would run with them wherever he could, and when they heard the whistle of the bomb he would shove them to the ground and try to cover them as much as he could. Everyone else would do the same, but Louis and Corin, left to themselves, probably wouldn’t. 

He couldn’t stop. It was exhausting, running through the endless worst-case scenarios, trying to think through everything to predict how best to act. He didn’t know enough about this world yet. He’d interrogated Grantaire on it, but his knowledge wasn’t anywhere near good enough. He hadn’t even seen a zombie. According to Grantaire, people baptised in the Charter could sense it when something was corrupted by Free Magic or Death, so he definitely needed that. But only a mage or priest of the Charter could do it, irritatingly, and Bel knew when or if one of those would ever visit them.

He sat with everybody else that evening, and took Louis and Corin back to the tent immediately afterwards. They hated crowds as much as he did, and Fantine’s guests that evening included two children their age who wanted to play. Corin had hidden his face and Louis had to be grabbed by Gallia before he hit the child trying to get him to join in.

“No hitting,” Enjolras whispered to Louis as he let down one of the tent flaps. “Violence is bad, remember?”

Louis hissed at him and turned away, curling around Corin. Enjolras nodded and left them alone, going back to the entrance of the tent to watch everybody else.

He slept better than usual, only waking up half a dozen times or so before dawn. He slipped out alone to the latrines and hurried back. Leaving the others frightened him, as if his eyes on them could somehow keep them safe from harm. Going with Grantaire to the woods was different, for some reason. He still felt guilty about doing it though.

“Come to the stream,” Cosette told him after he’d shaved and eaten that morning. “Bring the boys.”

“They hate the noise,” Enjolras muttered.

“They need to wash.”

That was true. Enjolras needed help from Yvette and his mother to get Louis and Corin out of the tent though. 

It was so much worse at the stream. There were too many people around and too much noise to hear anything clearly. He was wound tight as mandore strings by the time they left, and he wished he could have gone with Grantaire and Combeferre to the woods.

But they were taking it turns now, it seemed. Combeferre was scrupulously fair in everything he did, and now he knew Enjolras wanted to join Grantaire on his excursions too he was only going with him every other day. Enjolras rose at dawn the next day. He was ready the second Grantaire looked over at him, and he buried his guilt at leaving everybody else behind unwatched and followed Grantaire out of the camp.

The way the noise faded behind them was wonderful. The way Grantaire noticed and smiled to himself made something twist in the pit of Enjolras’ stomach, a feeling he placed after a moment – he’d felt things like that before he and Combeferre first kissed.

He buried the memory with his guilt and kept his eyes on the trees up ahead. He was waiting for a question, and could have smiled when it came.

“What’s Ancelstierre like?”

“Cold.” Enjolras hated being cold, hated snow, hated the winter. “And wet.”

“Ah. You’ll not much like autumn here then.”

“I do not like autumn anywhere.” Enjolras shook his head. “It was boring, and difficult in ways we did not expect. Ancelstierre is not anything like your Kingdom. It is more like Kalarime. We were despised by the people our camps were near to. They did not want us.” Nobody wanted them. “They did not come to kill us the way the Korrovians did in Bajin. But they printed lies about us in their newspapers. You know what those are?”

“Aye. Your sister told me. Sounds like a good idea,” Grantaire added. “When they’re not printing lies, I mean.”

“Yes. When the press is free and unbiased, but they are often not. That is why Combeferre’s family was killed. They owned our local newspaper, and they printed the truth about the coup.” They walked beneath the trees, and Enjolras breathed a little easier. “Ancelstierrens are crooks and cheats. They lied about us, and they tried to have us killed at the Lightning Farm. Has Combeferre told you about Thénardier?” 

“No.”

Enjolras hissed through his teeth. “He lived near to our camp in the north. He was allowed to come in and cheat us. He had a name like ours and he pretended we could trust him. He took what we had left and gave back to us false promises and poor food and medicine that did not work. Him and his whole family, they were all in on it. It was like a game to them. We should have known he was no good by his family alone.”

“Why?” Grantaire asked cautiously, and Enjolras made a derisive sound.

“His family was like an Ancelstierren family. Him, his _wife_ , his three children. Proper Kalarimians do not marry. But they used the name Thénardier to disguise what they were, and they took everything we had left. The oldest daughter, she pretended to be a friend, especially to Cosette, but when I went with Musichetta and Feuilly and Bossuet to confront her father, they took our clothes and beat us, and we had to walk back to our tents naked. She watched and did nothing. Some friend.” The humiliation of the memory still burned.

“Some people like being cruel,” Grantaire said quietly, cutting through Enjolras’ thoughts. “It makes them feel big. And they think it’s their due.”

“Exactly,” Enjolras agreed. “He was just like all the Ancelstierrens. They saw us as a problem to be rid of, or an opportunity to further their own selfish gains. I hate them.” It didn’t help to say it, as he’d hoped it would, and he bit back a sigh. “We sold my mother’s jewellery in Bajin,” he said. “And Yvette’s festival scarf, and all of our naming rings. All we had left when we got to Ancelstierre was Combeferre’s watch, Gallia and Chetta’s scarves, and two phonographs. Thénardier took those from us. And then when we crossed the wall we lost our papers as well. Our photographs. Louis and Corin will forget what their mother and sister looked like.” That loss hurt worse than anything. They could one day replace things like rings and scarves. They would never be able to get those photographs back. Carried all the way from their village in Kalarime, kept in their clothes and against their skin to keep them safe and undamaged, kept dry and carefully clean, and all for nothing. The photographs hadn’t lasted two weeks over the Wall. 

“A photograph is like a painting, Combeferre told me.” Grantaire stepped over a fallen branch as they entered the woods. “But more real.”

Enjolras had never really thought about what it would be like to not have photographs of anyone. And paintings would probably only be for those who could afford it – he doubted Grantaire had paintings of any of his family. “Yes,” he said eventually. “They are just like life.”

“Must’ve been hard to lose.”

“Yes.” Enjolras looked down, as much to keep an eye on his feet and make sure he didn’t trip as to gather his thoughts. “And everyone has lost them. No one in Ancelstierre cared, they did not understand, or want to understand. No one here either.”

“I do.” Grantaire glanced at him, then quickly away. “I mean, Travellers do. My people.”

Enjolras felt a flash of irritation. “Being constantly on the move and travelling light is not the same.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Grantaire hesitated – something he did a lot, Enjolras had noticed. “My people,” he said after several seconds, “in the past…you know how I said this is a different world to yours?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not our first world either.”

A torrent of words rose up behind Enjolras’ lips. He forced himself to swallow them until he knew exactly what to say. “You said you were born here.”

“Aye, I was. All of us were, but it en’t our first world. It’s our fourth.”

“Your _fourth?_ ”

Grantaire gave him a complicated look, almost guilty. “I don’t know whether I’m allowed to be telling you,” he muttered, shaking his head and going ahead of Enjolras as the path narrowed. “We don’t tell rachem about ourselves.”

“Rachem?”

“People who en’t Travellers. There’s lots we’re not allowed to tell rachem, but I don’t know if this is one of them or if it’s just something we don’t talk about with them because we don’t talk to them that much.”

“Why are there things you are not allowed to tell?”

“They’re ours for keeping.” Grantaire fell back to walk beside him as the path widened again and bit his lip. “It’s decisions we’ve made, that were made long afore I was born. When you move about as we do, up and down the Kingdom, and when you’ve moved from world to world as well, there’s decisions need to be made about what to change and what to keep.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your folk, for instance.” Grantaire nodded to him. “You can’t live as you used to in this land. The world’s different here. There’ll be things you need to change so you can live here.”

“Like being baptised in the Charter?” Enjolras guessed, and Grantaire smiled.

“Aye, exactly. Your people will need to change. But there’ll be things you don’t want to lose, things that remind you of who you are. Like your caps and scarves maybe, or food you eat, or days you celebrate every year. Not marrying,” he added with another smile. “You’ll probably not want to change that, but who knows? Might be in a few generations people’ll want to marry. Your people’ll need to think on these things and decide what to keep.”

“And there are things you keep you do not allow yourselves to speak of with rachem,” Enjolras said slowly, glancing between Grantaire’s face and his own feet.

“Aye. Because…well…” He sighed and obviously came to a decision. “Because this en’t our first world, and we’ve had to change every time we’ve gone to another.”

“Why so many?” Enjolras wasn’t sure he believed it, but it was certainly interesting. “Why did you first move?”

“Our gods told us to.” Grantaire said it as plainly as though he’d been there. “They spoke to the people and told us our world was going to die. And with their power, they made a bridge – like the Wall. That’s what we call them, those crossing points. They’re bridges. They made a bridge that covered the whole world, a line right across it, and they told us that any who stayed would die. They saved us all, and we will never have any gods again.”

“Do you still pray to them?”

Grantaire actually grinned. “What for? They’re dead, they can’t hear us.”

Enjolras wasn’t exactly devout, but he’d been brought up in Kalarime to pray to Matré-Belen, and the idea of living without any kind of religion at all was alien to him. “Do you not pray at all now?”

“No gods,” Grantaire reminded him, shrugging. 

“Then what do you believe happens to you when you die?”

“To our spirits? Depends on the world. Here, it’s just death.”

Enjolras very nearly stumbled over a root and looked down again, annoyed at himself for getting confused. “I do not understand.”

“In our first world, the god of death took the spirits of the dead and put them in the earth of their ancestors.” Grantaire’s voice had taken on a lilting sort of cadence, as though he was retelling something he’d been told a hundred times over. “In our second, the dead became ghosts and could talk to us at certain times of the year. In our third, the dead went to an underworld and we could not speak to them. In this world, the dead must hurry through many gates to reach the final resting, and if they are caught by a necromancer before that their spirits can be enslaved and brought back for a time. This is what will happen to your dead here,” he added, as sure as Enjolras had ever heard him.

It was too absurd to think about, so Enjolras just said, “If you say it is so. Why did you leave your second world?”

“There were many people there already.” Grantaire gestured for Enjolras to follow him and struck off from the path. “They thought we were invaders, come to steal their lands. We wanted to settle and live as they did, in peace, but they hated us and we grew to hate them. We cast spells against each other and fought many battles, and they killed many of us. Every time we settled, they would burn our homes and drive us away, hunting us until we were almost half what we’d been when we’d come.

“So our leaders used the mysteries to discover what could be done, and they found another bridge, a gateway between our world and another. And we left. Our third world was emptier, but still dangerous. Creatures lived in a shadow world, laid atop ours like a sheet of paper, and they could come through and do all sorts of wonderful and terrible things. We stayed in that world for a very long time, and it might have been our last if it weren’t for the blight – all living things began to die. All our crops and animals and all the people too. 

“So our leaders used the mysteries again and found another bridge, and we came here. And this time we decided it was too dangerous to be rooted to a single place or land, so we became Travellers for good. To be rooted is to be tied to danger. When you can move on quick, you can evade many troubles, and the people of this world cannot wage war against us so easy.”

“They would if they could?” Enjolras frowned.

“Not now,” Grantaire said. “But when we first arrived, we weren’t welcome. But we didn’t impose, we changed what we had to, and now they think we’ve always been here.”

“How long _have_ you been here?”

“Long time.” Grantaire shook his head. “Seven hundred years, maybe? Don’t know exactly. We came here in the reign of Queen Ysaere, whenever that was.”

“How many of you are there?”

“At last moot, last year, there were about fifteen thousand of us. My clan is two hundred strong or so, but we’re smaller than most.”

So few, compared to how many Southerlings had been promised land and homes in this world. 

“We’ve shed much,” Grantaire went on, striding ahead without hesitation. Enjolras still couldn’t tell if he knew the woods so well or if he was just accustomed to moving through them as if he did. “Including our numbers. It was many thousands of us left our first world, and there aren’t many left. Whole clans have gone. But we keep the things that matter.”

“Like what?” Enjolras asked.

“Our tongue, our language. We don’t speak it to anyone but each other – it’s one of the only things we can take with us wherever we go. Our names, our ways of doing things. Our ink. Tattoos,” he added, at Enjolras’ frown. “And things like our songs and dances. Things that only need a body, nothing more. We travel light, as you said. Once you’ve got too much attached to you to move properly, you’re rooted. Need to stay light and nimble, so you can up and leave if you need to.”

It made sense, Enjolras supposed, if they really had been through so many worlds. And even if they hadn’t, if they believed it, it still had the same outcome. “In Kalarime, only soldiers and sailors have tattoos, so they can be identified after death.”

“That’s one of the reasons we do it too,” Grantaire said amiably. “All Travellers have ink though, to show who we are and where we belong.”

“Where?” Enjolras hadn’t quite meant to ask, but luckily Grantaire didn’t seem to mind. He gestured to his chest.

“Chest, back, arms, and legs. But our clan tattoos are always on our chests, right here.” He touched his breastbone.

“Are you allowed to let rachem see them?”

“Aye.” Grantaire gave him an odd look, perhaps the tiniest bit uncertain. “Did you want to?”

More than he’d expected. “If you don’t mind.”

Grantaire stopped and unslung his bag, not meeting Enjolras’ eyes. Selfishly, Enjolras bit back a reassurance – he could have told Grantaire he didn’t have to, it didn’t matter, but he wanted to see. And Grantaire was a grown man, he could make his own decisions. And Enjolras wanted…wanted to see the man he hoped would make Combeferre happy.

It was a lie, and not a particularly good one. It stung too, to think of that while Grantaire was untucking his shirt and pulling it forward over his head, but then the ink on his back was revealed and Enjolras stopped thinking completely.

It was beautiful. Striking. Thin lines and circles and dots in a perfectly symmetrical pattern across Grantaire’s shoulders. When he turned, eyes still lowered, Enjolras stared at the pattern that bloomed outwards from the centre of his chest in a sort of triangle, widest at the top. There was a sort of diamond shape at the heart of it, and a stylised arrow pattern pointing downwards to Grantaire’s bellybutton. The top stopped below his collarbone and the sides sloped in, avoiding his nipples, the ink dark and thick behind Grantaire’s chest hair. 

“Your clan is the Finonn,” Enjolras remembered, and Grantaire nodded. He was blushing, when he lifted his head.

“Aye. Only the Finonn have this design.” He tapped his chest.

“It looks like an arrow.”

Grantaire looked startled, then pleased. “It is. We’re hunters, mostly.”

“What does the one on your back mean?”

“That I’m old enough to marry.” Grantaire’s smile twisted a little, rueful. “We get those when we’re fifteen.”

“And your clan tattoo?”

“Before we’re ten.”

“That seems very young.”

Grantaire laughed. “I got mine started when I was five.” He tapped the diamond in the centre of the pattern. “It starts here, and you get a bit added every year till you’re ten, and you can get it inked over after that if you think it’s too faded.”

“Why not all at once?”

“It’s to mark growing up.” Grantaire turned his shirt the right way out and pulled it back on. “And it’d hurt too much to get it all at once.”

“It hurts?” Enjolras’ surprise was audible, and Grantaire grinned at him, his blush fading.

“Like you wouldn’t believe. It’s a needle going into your skin over and over again, and that’s even worse when you’re a tot. Child, I mean.” He tucked his shirt back into his trousers and picked up his bag again. Oddly, he seemed to be more relaxed now he’d gotten it over with. Enjolras jogged a step to catch up with him when he started walking.

“They are very impressive.”

Grantaire smiled at him. “They’re the same designs as from our first world. The inkers of each clan are very important people, highly respected. They keep our patterns alive.”

What traditions and customs would the Southerlings keep, two or three generations down the line? Enjolras thought about it after Grantaire had left him, sinking into the quiet like a stone into a pond, letting it close over him and surround him. 

The four Southerling states were hardly a single entity. Kalarimians had many different traditions to the others, and even within Kalarime there were villages and families and areas of the countryside with conventions and beliefs of their own. How would people decide what to keep and what to change? What would happen to the children like Liberté, who would never know their homeland? Who would grow up thinking this strange Kingdom was their home?

In the deepest recesses of his heart, Enjolras still couldn’t let go of the delusion that he would one day be able to return to Kalarime. Surely one day they would get the news that the war had ended and the lists of the condemned families had been burned, and they would be free to return and rebuild their lives as they had been, as they were meant to be.

They could return to Montleire, their town. He could go back to university in Touléon. Courfeyrac would find them and they would build new compounds next to each other and never be parted again. Combeferre would… Enjolras’ imagination always drew back there, and then sped on with a cruel, sarcastic edge. Of course, they could return, and his dead family would spring up from the earth, miraculously alive. They would get back to Montleire and find that Combeferre’s family had never been murdered; that it had all been a big misunderstanding. The clock would somehow turn back, the past six years would never have happened, his uncle Guillaume would still be alive and Enjolras would have never killed anyone.

He sat against the tree Grantaire had left him at this time and pulled his knees up to his chest, burying his face between them. It was easier to calm down without any noise to distract him. Slow, even breathing and a focus on where he was, that was the trick. 

Enjolras sat and turned his thoughts away from the past and future. He listened to the wind in the trees and the songs of the birds, trying idly to think of how to describe them for Grantaire so he could tell him what they were. But he hardly knew how to do that in Chellanian, let alone Ancelstierren. He was better at the language than most, but he would never be perfect. 

By the time Grantaire returned, Enjolras was hungry. Grantaire gave him an apologetic smile as if he could tell and on the way back led them on a different route that came out of the forest below the camp. “D’you have sunflowers in Kalarime?” Grantaire asked, and Enjolras was about to say yes when he saw what Grantaire was pointing to.

“Oh! Yes, but we do not call them that.”

“What do you call them?” Grantaire knelt, his knife already out, and neatly sliced through stems and leaves of the flowers.

“Dent-de-lions. The Ancelstierrens call them dandelions.”

“Why?” Grantaire smiled curiously at him.

“It means lion teeth. Because of the leaves.” Enjolras motioned to the jagged edges of them, and Grantaire laughed.

“I’ve heard of lions. Combeferre said nothing about them living in Kalarime though.”

“They do not. They come from much further south.”

“Would you still think them sacred? I’ve heard they’re like really big cats.”

Startled, Enjolras almost smiled. “They are. There are stories about ancient queens who kept lions as pets, but it would be very dangerous to do now. Like keeping a wolf as a pet and thinking it is like a dog.”

Grantaire nodded. “A man can live with wolves, but a wolf can’t live with men.” It had a weight to it that gave Enjolras pause.

“Is that a saying here?”

“Tis for Travellers. Meaning both real wolves and people who act like them.”

“What do you mean?”

Grantaire finished harvesting dandelions and tucked them carefully into his satchel, wiping his knife on the grass before he stood. “People who act like beasts, fighting and preying on the weak. People who treat others badly. Your Thénardier – he sounds like a wolf. It en’t the same word in our tongue, exactly,” he added. “A real wolf is different from a man-wolf. But there’s no word for it in Kingdom, so wolf does well enough for both.”

“Is it a crime, for Travellers to behave like that?” They began to walk back, uphill towards the camp, and Grantaire nodded.

“Aye. Can be hard to prove though. But our way is based on fair trade. We’re not rich folk, but we have reputations here – a Traveller won’t cheat you.” He nodded firmly. “We need to be fair, elsewise people will turn on us and won’t trade with us. So if a Traveller starts cheating people, he’s putting us all at risk and we can’t have that.”

“How do you police that?” Enjolras asked. It sounded completely implausible to him, that so many people would act well to others. He’d believed in a sort of essential human goodness once, but not anymore.

“Checks, mostly.” Grantaire shrugged. “If someone reckons they were cheated by a Traveller, they tell another Traveller. That gets passed on, and at the moot every year there’s a few days where this sort’ve thing gets hashed out. The seekers go through all the tellings and use mysteries and the Charter to check whether the person accused really did cheat. If they did, they get taken back to those they cheated and make up for it somehow.”

“Your magic can tell if people are lying?”

“Some of it. I don’t know those sorts, but I know they work. Means you wouldn’t want to be caught as a cheat,” Grantaire said dryly. “Most wouldn’t risk it, knowing they’d be forced to own to it.”

“Surely people still do? Or are cleverer about it?”

“Course. But that’s people.” Grantaire shrugged. “Takes all sorts to make a world, my ma always said. Some people’d sooner cut off their own arm than tell a lie, some see people easily duped as deserving to be cheated.”

“Which are you?”

“Neither. I’ll lie if I need to, but I don’t think there’s people who deserve to be lied to.” Grantaire looked at him. “No one can live perfectly, can they? World’s too muddy.”

Enjolras frowned and didn’t reply, but Grantaire nodded as if he’d agreed. They kept quiet as they reached the bottom of the camp, making their way through the maze of tents until a shout stopped them.

“Hey! Enjolras!”

Montparnasse. Enjolras turned and waited for him to catch up, while Grantaire shifted behind him a little for some reason.

“Watch yourself,” Montparnasse said in Chellanian when he got close, his eyes flicking to Grantaire. “He’s got those powers, you ought to be careful.”

Enjolras could have grinned. “Worried about me, Montparnasse? I didn’t think you cared.”

Montparnasse snorted. “Heart and soul of charity, I am. I’m just saying, he’s not one of us. If he gives you any trouble, I’ll kill him for you.”

Enjolras’ lips twitched involuntarily. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

“Who’s taking care of your friend then?” Montparnasse challenged. He glared at Grantaire, who seemed to be frozen still. “The one he normally takes to the trees with him. I’ve been watching, I’ve seen them come and go. Who’s keeping an eye on him? I know you can do what needs doing, I’m not so sure about your tall friend.”

Enjolras’ humour faded as though it had never been. “Combeferre isn’t a child. He doesn’t need protection.”

“We all need protection here,” Montparnasse snapped. “Don’t be stupid. And who do you think will look out for us? Those guards? The fucking king? You know better. We have to look out for each other in this place.”

Enjolras was quiet for a moment, then met Montparnasse’s eyes. “If he moves against us, I’ll remove him myself.”

“Might be too late then,” Montparnasse cautioned. “What if his move is to kill someone?”

Enjolras opened his mouth, but a different voice spoke. “You’re paranoid.” They both turned to see Valjean, a small, sad smile on his face as he approached. “The boy is alone,” he told Montparnasse. “We’re giving him shelter, and he is giving us food and medicine. Not every stranger is a threat, young pemme.”

“And what would you know, old man?” Montparnasse bared his teeth, and Enjolras thought very suddenly of the wolves he and Grantaire had been talking about. “Stay out of this.”

Enjolras moved between them in one step and gripped Montparnasse’s arm. “My uncle has more right to speak than you, seeing as Grantaire lives in our circle.” He lowered his voice. “You know I wouldn’t let anything happen. Trust Grantaire or not, that’s your business, but you know you can trust me.”

“Come.” 

Enjolras looked behind him to see that Valjean had put an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders and was steering him away. Grantaire stood firm for a second, worried eyes on Enjolras, and Enjolras nodded. “I will catch up,” he said in Ancelstierren, and Grantaire allowed Valjean to lead him away.

“So?” Enjolras said, turning back to Montparnasse. “Do you trust me?”

“As much as I can.” Montparnasse shook off his hand with a sulky look. “I’m just saying you should be more careful. How much do you really know about him? How do you know he isn’t just playing a long game?”

“Some game,” Enjolras snorted. “He tries to pay us back for anything we give him.”

“We’re easy marks,” Montparnasse snapped. “Don’t you get that? We know fuck all about this place, and the people here have fucking _magic_. You’ve got no way of double checking anything he tells you, and you’ve all put yourselves in his debt. For all you know he summoned that zombie to chase your friends to him that night so he could stage a rescue.”

“You really think he’s capable of that?” Enjolras scoffed. “Have you even looked at him?”

“It’s what I’d do.” Montparnasse was deadly serious. “Just think on it. And keep an eye on him.”

Enjolras let him have the last word, and just nodded.

He didn’t catch up with Grantaire, and got back to the Brideau circle to see him sat by the fire with Valjean and Combeferre, frowning as they talked. Enjolras didn’t want to know what they were telling him, or if it was about Montparnasse. He just went to the tent to check on Louis and Corin, and ignored the part of himself that wished he and Grantaire didn’t only speak when they were alone. It would be over a day before he would be able to explain what had just happened.

It passed slowly.

He ignored his hunger until they ate that evening. His mother told the story of the red witches, which had terrified Enjolras as a child, and they all told Grantaire more about midsummer, which was only six days away. On midsummer, they celebrated the year with music and dance, and everyone was excited about having a celebration. Some people had celebrated it already, just after they’d crossed the Wall, but most hadn’t. Even if no one had acknowledged it, the season had clearly been too early for it.

Enjolras sat in silence and let everybody else do the talking. He listened that night as Corin woke from a nightmare and his mother sang softly to him until he stopped crying. He watched the next morning as Combeferre and Grantaire left together, and ignored the way it made his stomach churn.

He went to the river with his family, and pretended not to eavesdrop on Musichetta and Cosette as they whispered about Corin’s nightmare, and pretended not to notice when Musichetta lost her temper and ran away. Cosette came to sit near him and pretended she wasn’t hurt. Enjolras didn’t know what to say to her to help, so said nothing.

“You’re like ice,” she said out of nowhere, not looking at him. Enjolras gave no sign that he could hear her. “And she’s like fire. You’re both hurting, but you turn cold and she lashes out. I hate it. I wish you could both just forget what happened.”

Fury coursed through Enjolras so suddenly that he wanted to lash out himself, to shove her away and howl at her. So many possible responses whirled through his mind that he said none of them, continuing to stare into the water as if he hadn’t heard her.

“Case in point,” she said acidly, and got up. “I suppose I’ll just leave you to it then.”

It would do no good to get angry. He’d done that a few times in Bajin, and it had never made him feel better or made any difference to the situation. It would only upset whoever he got angry at. He waited for it to pass, distracting himself by wondering what Combeferre and Grantaire were talking about right now. 

Thinking about that only reminded him that he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about it, so he thought about Courfeyrac instead. Courfeyrac and his family – where were they now? What would they be doing?

He liked to think they were also in the Old Kingdom, that they were close. Courfeyrac’s family was much larger than his, and they were of Korrovian heritage. The whole lot of them had moved to Montleire when his grandmother had been a child, and Enjolras had known Courfeyrac all his life. Leaving them behind in Bajin had been one of the worst experiences of the war, but they’d heard from other refugees that the Lizots had made it to Ancelstierre.

Courfeyrac was alive somewhere, with the rest of his family, and one day they would find each other again. The guards had assured him when he’d asked that assembling the registers was the first step to reuniting lost friends and families. If the Lizots were in the Old Kingdom, they would be registered, their name recorded. The register for their camp had been completed last week. The friendliest guard, Jehan, had told him that soon every guard would be given a complete list of all the refugees in the camps, and they could check whether Courfeyrac’s name was there as soon as that happened.

The anger passed, and Enjolras pulled the pot he’d been rinsing out of the stream. His hands were numb from the water, and the back of his neck was sweating. 

That afternoon, Marcel the barber came to their circle. It was a relief to have his overlong hair snipped short again, and Enjolras was genuine in his thanks. It was Joly who persuaded Marcel to stay a while and share some leftovers from breakfast, giving Combeferre and Grantaire time to return and have their hair cut as well.

Combeferre was clearly as relieved as Enjolras had been for the trim, and Enjolras watched with his hands clenched in his lap, remembering the way he’d once cut Combeferre’s hair while they’d been at university. They’d been trying to save money, and when Courfeyrac had seen the mess Enjolras had made he’d forced them both to come to a barber with him to get it fixed. They’d been helpless with horrified laughter, examining Combeferre’s head from all angles with mirrors, reassuring each other that hair grew back and at least the damage wasn’t permanent. 

Grantaire was hesitant when Marcel offered a cut to him as well, but at Joly and Bossuet’s urging, he sat and pulled his shirt off as everyone else had done, so the hairs wouldn’t cling to the material and itch. He blushed deeply when everyone started exclaiming over his tattoos, and laughed when Gallia asked with wide eyes if it meant he’d been to prison.

Enjolras saw his mother look at Valjean out of the corner of his eye and ignored it.

He wished suddenly and selfishly that Marcel had come in the morning and Combeferre and Grantaire had missed him. He’d liked being the only one to know about Grantaire’s tattoos. If Combeferre’s wide eyes were any indication, even he hadn’t known. 

Grantaire asked Marcel to cut his hair short, and Enjolras’ nails made little half-moons in his palms as he watched dark curls fall to the ground. When Marcel was done, Grantaire looked delighted, running his hands across his newly short hair as if Marcel had just performed a miracle.

Marcel spoke no Ancelstierren, so Cosette translated for him with a big smile on her face. “He says if you were in Kalarime in his old barbershop, he would shave and oil your face and the back of your neck, and if you were an old man he would trim your eyebrows and nose and ear hairs as well. If you were a pemme, he would shave the sides of your head completely bald. He would put a hot towel on your face and you would smell of lemons for the rest of the day so that everyone would know you had been to a barber.”

Grantaire laughed, and shook Marcel’s hand when he offered it. “Tell him I wish my folk had anything half as nice – I hope you set up a shop here.”

Marcel beamed and kissed both of Grantaire’s cheeks. Without any hair to hide it, Enjolras could see that the tips of Grantaire’s ears turned bright pink when he was embarrassed, and wished again that Marcel hadn’t come.

And why? He tore into himself as the afternoon turned to evening, and continued his silent condemnation into the night, lying awake with his eyes closed, too hot between Cosette on one side and Louis on the other. What was he thinking? He had no right to approve or disapprove of anything where Grantaire was concerned. He was nothing, he should have no opinion at all, what opinions he had were worth less than dust. He was worth less than dust.

How dare he feel any sort of possession over Grantaire’s body? Over his secrets? And that went for Combeferre as well – he should have been impassive while Marcel cut his hair too, he should have looked away or not cared at all. Combeferre deserved better than him. Cosette deserved better than him. She was right to have been angry. He was a poor excuse for a brother these days. He hardly spoke to her anymore, he hardly spoke to their mother, to anyone. 

They all deserved better than him. 

His sleep was restless and unpleasant, interspersed with horrible dreams that faded to horrible impressions each time he woke up. He was still tired when his mother drew back the tent flap early the next morning to let some air in. They would have to start sleeping with it open if the heat continued to rise, and it put Enjolras in an even worse temper, especially when it started to rain. 

Rain meant everyone would stay in their tents, harder to watch over, and the day would pass even more slowly than usual. Enjolras was disgusted by his own eagerness as he shaved and kept half an eye on Grantaire, waiting for him to look over and indicate the woods. As soon as he did, Enjolras was on his feet. His cap would keep the worst of the rain off anyway, and he accepted a scarf from Cosette with a murmured thank you to keep his newly bare neck dry as well.

Grantaire didn’t seem to mind the rain at all. In fact, he turned his face up to it once they were out of the camp and smiled, eyes closed. “I like summer rains,” he explained. “When it’s this warm, they cool you down. We’re due a storm in the next day or so, maybe tonight. That’ll break this fug.”

“Fug?”

“Aye. This…” Grantaire gestured with both hands. “The way it’s wet and hot and the same time. Sort of damp?”

“ _Humide_ ,” Enjolras said. “Humid. That is what we call it.”

“We say fuggy. Like foggy, but warmer.” Grantaire smiled at him, and Enjolras felt abruptly guilty that he was monopolising Grantaire’s time like this when it could have been Combeferre here instead. And Combeferre would be capable of smiling and making better conversation, he had no doubt. 

After a minute’s silence, Enjolras said quietly, “I am afraid I am poor company today.”

Grantaire just shrugged. “I don’t mind the quiet, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Enjolras let that sink in, and nodded. “Thank you. I should tell you, also – you do not need to worry about Montparnasse.”

Grantaire glanced at him, an inscrutable expression on his face. “No?”

“No,” Enjolras assured him. “He means you no harm. He is wary of outsiders, that’s all. He warned us not to trust Thénardier. He gave us blankets to cover ourselves with when we were beaten and stripped by him. He was a criminal in Kalarime, but he is trustworthy. I trust him.”

“Combeferre doesn’t,” Grantaire said cautiously, and Enjolras nodded, trying to think of how to phrase it.

“Combeferre did not talk to Thénardier. He did not go to the black market in Bajin. This is good – he would not have fared well. But things are not the same as they were before we left Kalarime. A criminal like Montparnasse can be an ally or a friend now, when he would not have been at home. He has lost things too. We are all alike now.” He didn’t know how to explain it properly, and sighed. “Montparnasse understands the things some of us had to do in order to stay safe. He is a dangerous pemme, but that does not make him an enemy. We have all experienced betrayals many times on our journey – he simply does not wish to see any of us fall victim to another.”

Grantaire nodded, seeming to accept that, and they were silent for at least an hour as they walked before Enjolras even remembered that he was supposed to have asked Grantaire to leave him somewhere. Grantaire had checked two of his traps already. The rain was dripping steadily through the leaves above them, and it was much cooler under the trees than it had been in the camp. And Enjolras didn’t want to be still anymore. It was much more satisfying to creep through the undergrowth behind Grantaire, feeling his body actually moving, actually _doing_ something.

Why not just keep going? Grantaire had said he didn’t mind the quiet. It might even be easier to have Enjolras trail behind him instead of having to use his magic to set up a circle of protection.

_Crack._

Enjolras heard the gunshot and didn’t even think. He flung himself forward, tackling Grantaire and bringing them both down to the ground with a hard thud. 

The body beneath him wriggled and Enjolras couldn’t breathe, shoved Courfeyrac down and hissed, “Stay still! Shh!” Listening, listening, where were they? He couldn’t hear footsteps, they were trying to sound them out, they would be listening too, and whoever moved first would give themselves away.

His heart was beating so fast and his throat burned with the effort of not hyperventilating. Courfeyrac shifted again and panic blazed through Enjolras like physical pain. He pinned Courfeyrac down harder and breathed into his ear. “Shh! They’ll hear.” If they hadn’t heard already, if they weren’t on top of them right now, if Enjolras wasn’t about to be shot in the back, Courfeyrac dragged away, the two of them tortured, legs broken so they couldn’t run, just like Guillaume and Patrice, they were going to die, they were going to die.

The soldiers would start shooting any second, and the low grass of the field would offer no protection, and in this light – 

It was both dark and light at the same time, he was in a field and in a forest, the man beneath him was both Courfeyrac and Grantaire, and Grantaire was whispering to him, whispering in Ancelstierren – Kingdom – not Chellanian, and for a second Enjolras couldn’t understand.

“– nothing there, honest. Guns don’t work in the Kingdom, remember? Nothing to worry about, it was just a branch breaking off a tree, happens sometimes. Not so often in summer, I’ll grant you, but weirder things’ve happened. Important thing is we’re safe, there’s nothing to be frightened of, not even any wolves about at the moment – wolves the animals I mean, not wolves the people. Not around here, no need to fret. See, you listen? There en’t nothing about but us and the birds. Prob’ly some squirrels too, can’t see too well from down here, but no –”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras muttered, and felt more than heard Grantaire breathe out.

“That’s me. Nothing to worry about, no guns, no people. You alright?”

“Me?” Enjolras was starting to shake, and he shoved himself up and off Grantaire as fast as he could, falling backwards onto the ground. Grantaire twisted round and sat up, no anger in his expression at all. 

“Aye,” he said. “You didn’t…well, you didn’t seem yourself for a minute there.”

Enjolras was shivering, out of breath, and couldn’t stop himself looking around for soldiers, still half-convinced they were there. “I’m sorry,” he managed to get out between breaths. “I thought it was…”

“A gun?” Grantaire seemed to see something in Enjolras’ face, and nodded without waiting for a reply. “Bossuet told me they make a sound like that. Easy mistake to make, I reckon. No harm done.”

Enjolras shook his head and pulled his knees up against his chest, holding onto them tightly to try and stop himself shaking. “I’m sorry.”

“No harm done,” Grantaire said again. “Didn’t even knock the breath out of me. Good thing the ground’s so soggy – might’ve been a harder landing otherwise.” And now Enjolras looked, he saw that Grantaire’s clothes were wet right down the front, and he had leaves and bits of dirt stuck to them. “Don’t say sorry again, en’t no need,” Grantaire said, forestalling him. “Could’ve happened to any of you lot, I reckon. If arrows made a bang, I’d be shifty about loud noises too. And from how Bossuet tells it, the crack en’t even any good for a warning because the bullets come out too quick. Even faster than an arrow, he said. I reckon even if you think it’s primitive, better to have a chance to duck.”

Grantaire’s steady rambling gave Enjolras a chance to pull himself together, though he was still twitching at every rustle in the undergrowth. He owed Grantaire an explanation, and swallowed several times before clearing his throat. Grantaire fell obligingly quiet, and Enjolras made himself look at him. “I thought it was a gun,” he said quietly. “You are right. I walked backwards for a moment. I hope you are not hurt.”

Grantaire shook his head. “I’m easy.” He licked his lips, frowning a little. “What d’you mean, you walked backwards?”

“It is a direct translation.” Enjolras couldn’t hold his gaze, and looked at a spot between them instead. “Valjean says it is normally something that happens to soldiers. You walk backwards, in your memory, and it is as if you are in the past, living it again.”

“Oh!” Grantaire leaned forward, then back again when Enjolras flinched. “Beg pardon. No, I just…I get that, I know what that is. We’ve not got a word for it though, or words, more than one.” He rolled his eyes at himself. “I mean…aye, I’ve done that before, walking backwards. Walking backwards,” he said again to himself, as if testing out the phrase.

“You have?” Enjolras stared at him, and glanced away the second Grantaire looked back.

“Aye. I, um. Since my family…since the night my family died, I can’t stand the smell of rot, rotting flesh.” He made a face, drawing into himself in a way that almost mirrored Enjolras. “Anything that smells like they did, like anything Dead, it makes me think I’m back there and they’re coming for me. They move right fast when they’re hungry, and they’re strong enough to tear you apart. They pull you down and rip you up and eat your life, drink it right down.” His voice had gotten smaller, and he gave himself a little shake when he saw Enjolras looking. “Sorry, meant to be helping you, aren’t I? Not wallowing in my own mess like a pig.”

“I did not know your family had been killed by zombies.” Enjolras had just thought he’d left his family and gone out alone, as many young men in Ancelstierre did. He shouldn’t have assumed.

“Oh.” Grantaire shrugged awkwardly. “Aye. About a year ago.”

Enjolras considered his words before speaking, careful to phrase it as a question rather than a request. “Would you mind if I asked what happened?”

Grantaire shook his head. “No. En’t much to tell. We were camped up east in a different forest, and a dozen Dead found us. We’d laid a diamond of protection, but one of our dogs attacked them and they took its life and there were enough of them to break through. Marius and me, we were sleeping outside under the van, but the rest were inside. We all started running, but it was dark and the Dead run fast. We tried to stay together but there wasn’t time to cast any marks or do anything but shout. I…me and Marius, we managed to stick together but our grandda…” He shook his head with a horrible twisted smile. “He was near eighty. Men that old can’t run the way young’uns can. And we heard our Lilibet screaming…she was our little cousin, only eight, only a baby. Tots can’t run fast either. We’d camped not far from the Ratterlin, but it was too far in the dark, and we were upwind and we could smell ‘em. Charter, you wouldn’t believe the stink, makes you gag, gets in your mouth so’s you can almost taste it. Marius and me, we made it to the river, but he drowned. I went back the next day in the light, hardest thing I’ve ever done, but there was nothing left. They killed our horses, our dogs, everything. And my family, their bodies were gone, nothing left to burn. Fucking necromancers.”

His voice cracked, and he shook his head, rubbing his hands quickly across his face. “Sorry.”

“I asked.” Enjolras wanted to reach out and comfort him somehow, take his hand or arm, maybe hug him. The impulse passed in a cloud of shame, and he ducked his head against his knees again. “That is what you walk backwards to, when you smell rotten flesh?”

“Aye. Running through the woods in the dark, that awful smell, and the way they sound. They can’t speak, but they’ve got throats still. They make these sounds…nothing else like it in the world, puts your hair on end, rattles your bones.” He shook his head. “I barely managed that Hand when I met Combeferre and Feuilly and Joly. I threw up and passed out after. They were good enough not to mention it to anyone, I think. Decent folk.”

“They are.” Enjolras agreed. “Combeferre is the best man I have ever known.” Grantaire gave him a puzzled look, and Enjolras panicked. “I walk backwards to the place my uncle Guillaume was killed, with Courfeyrac’s uncle Patrice.”

Grantaire cocked his head. “When you were leaving Kalarime?”

“Yes.” Grantaire had told his story, Enjolras supposed he owed him one in return. He couldn’t look at Grantaire while telling it though, fixing his eyes instead on the wet earth between them. The rain had eased up a little, though the trees were still dripping, and Enjolras focused on that. There had been no rain on the night Guillaume and Patrice had died.

“We went in groups,” he said slowly. “Our family and the Lizots, Courfeyrac’s family, were too many to travel together. So we went in five groups, like I told you before. Guillaume was my first uncle, my mother’s first brother. Patrice was Courfeyrac’s first uncle. I went with them, and others in Courfeyrac’s family – his brother and sister, his grandmother, great-aunts, and great-grandmother. We called them all his grandmothers. We were the smallest group, and the slowest. We were supposed to protect Courfeyrac’s grandmothers.

“We went to look at a farmhouse three days into the mountains, to see if there was any food there. It looked abandoned, but there were soldiers nearby. I stayed hidden, but they captured Courfeyrac, Guillaume, and Patrice.” He kept his sentences short and clipped. Better to stick to the facts than linger on how terrified he had been, how his shirt had stuck to his back with sweat as he’d watched his uncle and friends beaten and dragged away by cruel men and women in shabby uniforms with shiny new badges. “I waited until it was dark. They were keeping them in the pig pens, and I waited until they were left alone and sneaked in.

“They had broken Guillaume and Patrice’s legs, and beaten them all very badly.” A deep breath. “Courfeyrac was unconscious. I…Guillaume and Patrice knew there was nothing I could do for them. They made me take Courfeyrac, and then they started crawling in the opposite direction. I made it to the fields and then…I heard the soldiers shoot them, and then they started looking for Courfeyrac. They were shooting into the fields, so I lay down on top of Courfeyrac and waited for them to give up. Then I dragged him away. We found Cyprien and Clotilde and went on.”

Grantaire was quiet. “You walked back to that field just then.”

“Yes.”

“Courfeyrac’s lucky to have someone like you as a friend.”

Enjolras’ stomach clenched, and he started getting to his feet, steadying himself on a sapling. Grantaire followed suit, clumsier for once. “I must apologise again,” Enjolras muttered, for once feeling a horrible need to fill the silence. Grantaire just smiled, a little crooked thing.

“You were trying to protect me, even if you didn’t think it was me. Nothing to apologise for. Are you ready to keep going?”

Enjolras nodded, and on they went. They didn’t exchange another word, and although Enjolras considered asking Grantaire to leave him somewhere as usual, he knew the solitude would only spook him further at this point. All he could hear in the rustle of leaves and branches were the footsteps of soldiers, and he trailed Grantaire so closely that he almost tripped. It was pathetic, to be so frightened of memories and shadows, and it was a weakness he couldn’t afford to indulge.

After a while, Grantaire began to talk again, after asking Enjolras if he minded. When Enjolras shook his head, Grantaire smiled and started telling him about the woods they were in. It was strange, the way Grantaire chattered. Enjolras had never encountered anyone else who could talk on and on like this, in a way that somehow included him while making absolutely no demands on his participation. Grantaire didn’t pause for him to make any noises or speak to indicate he was listening, but at the same time he obviously wasn’t just talking to himself. He was addressing Enjolras, somehow talking with him rather than at him despite the fact that Enjolras wasn’t making a sound.

It meant he didn’t have to focus completely on Grantaire; he could let his mind wander a little, but not get so untethered he walked backwards again. Grantaire’s chatter kept him anchored to the present better than the sound of the rain or the increasing dampness of his clothes.

Of Grantaire’s traps, only one had caught a rabbit. Two of them had caught something, as Grantaire showed him the snares, but something else had come along and eaten them. “A fox, maybe,” Grantaire said, not seeming to mind. “I’d not turn my nose up at a rabbit someone else had caught for me, if I were a fox.” To make up for it, he cut great handfuls of greenery on their way back, packing it carefully into his bag. “Rain’ll keep it fresh, at least.”

No one was at the fire when they returned to camp, though someone had set a canvas cover over it to keep it dry. Grantaire went to Matelote and Gibelotte’s tent to give them the food and sit with them a while, apparently perfectly content to sit outside in the rain. “Wet already, aren’t I? A bit more rain won’t make any difference.” Enjolras went to his family’s tent and for the first time in what felt like an age actually enjoyed the way his mother tsked at him and made him get out of his wet clothes and into bed. Between bedroll and blanket, really, but she added hers and Cosette’s blankets to his and towelled his hair dry herself, and for a moment he caught Cosette’s eye and almost smiled, knowing her expression of fond embarrassment was probably mirrored on his own face.

The tent was warm, but the flaps were pulled back to let the air in, and Enjolras curled up under the blankets and slept for more than two hours unbroken. He didn’t even dream.


	7. Combeferre

Combeferre gave his and Grantaire’s tent to Cosette to put into the Brideau tent. Everybody else was doing the same to make room, and it was making everyone smile. Even Corin was showing a little interest for once, riding up on Yvette’s shoulders and gazing about with wide eyes as tents came down. 

They would sleep on the ground tonight, and probably tomorrow and the night after as well if the weather held, which Grantaire said he was reasonably sure it would, after the heavy rains the day before yesterday. Combeferre was glad he knew that Grantaire was used to sleeping outside in the summer, or else he would have felt ashamed to be able to offer no shelter. It was one of the only things he’d been able to give Grantaire to show his gratitude for what he kept doing for them.

The three nights of midsummer began tonight, and Grantaire was hearing from everyone around them what the celebrations had been like back in Kalarime. Joly and Bossuet were the loudest, occasionally breaking out in song. Musichetta had been named for her sweet voice, and they pestered her until she joined in, and Combeferre laughed at the sight of her breaking down in giggles for the first time in months.

Only a few refugees in their entire camp had managed to keep hold of any instruments through their long, dangerous journey, and every time Combeferre caught the sound of one of them his heart panged. Drums at least were easier to build from what materials they had to hand, but his skill had never been worth indulging that much. 

“It’s like bringing down a forest,” Feuilly remarked, standing next to Combeferre and staring around. “It shouldn’t make so much difference, but…”

“I know.” Most of the tents were small enough that people’s heads and shoulders could always be seen above them, but taking them down opened up so much space it really was as if a forest was being felled around them. Combeferre could see so much more already, see so much further, and hear more as well. “It’ll make the music carry,” he said.

“It carried in Ancelstierre too.”

“It’s nicer here though,” Louison said, joining them. “No mud and no fences, and it’s properly warm too. We haven’t had a warm midsummer since leaving Kalarime.”

“Anything’s better than spending it on a boat,” Feuilly said, and Combeferre and Louison murmured agreements. They knew Feuilly had escaped from Kalarime on a rickety fishing boat at midsummer, forty strangers packed onto a vessel made to hold ten at the most. Few boats made the passage across the Sunder Sea without losing people to the water, and Feuilly’s had been worse than most – of the forty people who left, only seventeen made it to shore. The boat had capsized, and only those who had managed to cling to the wreckage had survived.

“Will you sing anything?” Louison asked him, and Feuilly shook his head.

“Only my part in a chorus. I’m no soloist. You?”

“I have something prepared.” She smiled. “With Fleur.”

“Is that so?” Feuilly laughed and nudged her. “Something new?”

“No, something her grandmother taught her when she was a child. But we’re singing it together, when we can get a spot.”

Combeferre explained the system to Grantaire later on. At home, midsummer celebrations would be held in the town square or hall, with multiple performances happening at the same time, and everything would have been organised weeks in advance. People who wanted to perform had to enter their names and the lengths of their performances to the authorities. In larger towns and in cities, there would be so many applicants that there would be auditions for the honour. 

Here, everything was a shamble, but Combeferre could barely contain his enthusiasm. There were few enough people that three nights would easily be enough to allow for everyone who wanted to perform. Two nights would probably do it. Combeferre confessed that he hoped that would be the case – that way, people would be able to request to hear their favourites again. There were far fewer choruses, which was sad, but expected. 

A proper chorus, Joly explained to Grantaire, needed at least nine singers, one for each type of voice. Traditionally, they would be single gender choruses, or a split of three women, three pemmes, and three men. It was hard to find a perfect chorus in a family these days, with so many people gone. They’d had a couple of very decent midsummers in the camp in Ancelstierre, having had so much time to settle down and get to know each other.

There had been no midsummer celebration in Bajin. The people in Basque celebrated the festival as well, but they marked it with a massacre. Combeferre couldn’t think about it. Like so much of his past, he kept it in a locked box in his head, put away and done with. It was behind him now, and he had no wish to dwell on horrors.

“Can you perform something?” Grantaire asked Combeferre in very slow Chellanian. He was doing his stubborn best to learn the language, though he still preferred to practice with Combeferre when they were alone than risk embarrassment or offence by trying to speak with the others. In this case, Combeferre expected that he was asking whether he would, not whether he could. He shook his head anyway.

“No. I am not very good.”

Grantaire gave him a shrewd look. “I do not…mm.” He struggled for a second, then gave up. “What’s believe, in Chellanian? How would I say I don’t believe you?”

Combeferre laughed, and Feuilly got in on the lesson as they kept helping to clear the ground, making space.

When the evening came on, Combeferre sat next to Grantaire as the performances began. Their group had merged with several others around them to become part of a much larger circle, the cleared space making a stage of sorts in the centre for the performer to stand. There was no consensus to it the way there had been back home in Montleire – the different circles simply started when they wanted. He had expected Fantine to open their ceremony, as the matriarch of the largest family group there, but she had obviously asked Madame Boissy to do the honours, as she was the oldest woman there. Madame Boissy had accepted this as her due without feeling patronised, and proudly sang the first verse of the Midsummer Chorus, the song everyone always opened the celebrations with.

They weren’t the first circle to start, so there were echoes of the song already starting up around the camp, and in under a minute everyone was singing. The first verse was sung alone, and then the women joined in, then the pemmes, then the men, and because everyone had started at different times it was a huge, harmonious swell of voices lifting into the pale evening air.

Every person except Grantaire was singing, or pretending to sing. Even Enjolras. Even Corin and Louis. Combeferre grinned at Grantaire, who looked overwhelmed, eyes wide and mouth open. With so many voices raised in song, it was impossible not to be moved, and Combeferre was suddenly fiercely glad that Grantaire was there to witness it. It seemed right somehow that an outsider would hear and see their songs and music and feel their power. It was right that Grantaire be in awe of it – Combeferre was as well. They had endured so much, but they were still celebrating midsummer with their music. If they could do this, they could do anything.

He felt the same every midsummer, but that didn’t lessen the impact. If anything, it just made Combeferre smile more and sing louder.

It trailed off slowly, and when the last verse was concluded by a few circles who had started late, everyone erupted in cheers and applause. Even Javert was smiling, though it was small and crooked, like he was trying not to. A few people started singing the Kalarimian national anthem, and others began to join in with gusto. Combeferre couldn’t bring himself to hesitate for long, though the song still hurt a little to hear when their own country had exiled them.

Grantaire looked as impressed by the national anthem as he had by the Midsummer Chorus, and clapped loudly with everyone else when it was over. “You’re all very good,” he said in a low voice to Combeferre.

“We all learn to sing from a very young age.” Combeferre felt the swell of pride stir in his chest. “We are said to be the most musical country in the world, and even the most musical of the Southerling States.”

“Do the other Southerling States agree?” Grantaire teased, but there was no time to reply before a trio of children from one of the other families got up to sing, all of them giggling too much to start without help from an indulgent adult. It was charming, and Combeferre was surprised to realise how much he had missed seeing happy children up close, truly enjoying themselves and breaking into giggles even as they tried to be grown-up and serious. But these children were so young that the smallest two had clearly been born after the war began. This Kingdom camp might be the most peaceful place they’d known. 

Combeferre pushed such maudlin thoughts from his mind and concentrated on the songs. He and Bossuet on Grantaire’s other side whispered translations when they could, and Combeferre grinned whenever he saw Grantaire mouthing the words he’d picked up along with the singers, trying to get his tongue around the unfamiliar shapes and sounds.

For the first night, the mood was celebratory. People stood up to sing funny songs, exciting songs, songs about success and luck and beating tricksters and evildoers. There were lots of familiar tunes, and lots of singers encouraging the crowds to sing along with them to make their own chorus. Lots of clapping along and temporary conductors keeping time and keeping the audience to their cues. The circles lucky enough to have someone in them with an instrument were raucous, and by the time it was dark people had begun to drum on the ground with their hands and feet, calling out for old favourites and calling back the best singers to perform again. 

Lots of the good songs had bits that were easy to sing along to, and Combeferre laughed when Bossuet threw an arm over Grantaire’s shoulders, swaying with him and Joly and singing their deeper parts at the top of his lungs. Grantaire was joining in cheerfully by the time the night began to wind down several hours later. 

“It will keep going all day tomorrow, don’t worry,” Combeferre told him as they unrolled their blankets and faced each other in the dark. “Lots of dancing, lots more singing.”

“It’s fun,” Grantaire whispered back. “Like the Traveller’s Moot. Should I still go to the forest tomorrow?”

Combeferre hummed. “If you like. The food…would be good, if your traps have been successful.”

“Then I’ll go.” Grantaire sounded like he was smiling. Other people around them were whispering too, a background susurrus of sound that was like the waving of grass in a field. It was soothing, and the breeze was soft, and Combeferre yawned and found himself falling asleep almost before he knew it.

He woke before dawn, and stayed where he was to watch the camp around him as everyone else woke up. Enjolras, Cosette, and Musichetta had all slept outside as well, he saw, and felt something strange at the sight of Enjolras curled on his side under his blanket, chestnut hair mussed from sleep. He couldn’t see his face – Cosette’s shoulder was in the way – but he could see Enjolras’ hands just peeking out from the edge of the blankets, long fingers curled up into loose fists.

Combeferre looked away and rolled over, facing Grantaire. The movement must have disturbed his sleep – Grantaire mumbled something under his breath and stretched. With his eyes still closed, he muttered, “Morning.”

Combeferre grinned. “How did you know I was awake?”

“Just knew.” Grantaire opened his eyes and smiled, and if he’d been Enjolras just a few years ago, Combeferre would have leaned in to kiss him.

But he was Grantaire, here and now in 1931, and that suddenly gave Combeferre pause. “Do you have an organised calendar system here?”

Grantaire laughed. “We have seasons, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, but…you’ve just been saying it’s the twenty-first year of King Touchstone’s reign. Do you not measure years in any other way?”

Grantaire shrugged, propping his head up on one hand. “We’ve not got numbers like you do, I don’t think. Maybe they do at the palace, I don’t know. We’d just say the years of the reign. Or the Interregnum.”

“Was it really two hundred years? Exactly two hundred years?”

Grantaire shrugged again. “Does it matter? Makes no difference, does it? It might’ve been, I don’t know. I’ve not been keeping track of it. I suppose they’ve done that in Belisaere though. Time’s all circles and spirals anyway, not straight lines. You don’t need to mark off days like a prisoner in a cell. You know what time of day it is, thereabouts, you can see what season it is. What more is there? It’s dawn, it’s early summer, and it’s time for breakfast.” 

It was Enjolras’ turn to go into the woods with Grantaire today. They ate what little had been left for breakfast (some families had nothing, not as cautious as Matelote and Gibelotte when it came to their rations, and Combeferre noticed that Valjean gave his share away with a smile rather than eat when others were hungry), and shaved, and then the two of them walked away in silence. 

Combeferre had never seen Enjolras talk to Grantaire, but he supposed they must, when they were in the woods and away from eavesdroppers. The others always watched him out of the corners of their eyes when Grantaire and Enjolras left. He knew some of them thought it was strange, and that he was mad for not trying to stop it. Louison had said quite plainly that if she’d been in his place, she would have made sure to go with Grantaire every day, just to keep Enjolras away.

Of the Brideaus, only Cosette really seemed to understand. If anything, she understood too much. “Old flames and new flames,” she’d muttered to him one morning, as they’d watched Grantaire and Enjolras walking away, and Combeferre had wanted to deny it and found he couldn’t quite bring himself to.

It was too new. So new it almost hurt to think about. He still didn’t know what to call the painful, slow separation that had grown between him and Enjolras. They’d never spoken about it. It had just happened. And it was still impossible to imagine his future without Enjolras. Part of him believed that as long as he stayed close, once they settled things might go back to normal again. Enjolras would start smiling again and would look at him the way he used to. Would look at him at all, even. 

Another part of him believed that nothing could be decided until they found Courfeyrac. Things had been nightmarish in Bajin, but at least the three of them had been together. Without Courfeyrac, he was unbalanced. No one could replace him, or even come close. Courfeyrac would have known what to do about Grantaire and Enjolras. 

Combeferre had no time to sink into melancholy. Midsummer celebrations lasted into the days as well as the nights, and there were plenty of people keen to start dancing. Combeferre went with Joly, Bossuet, and Feuilly to the very centre of the camp where the few musicians who had kept their instruments had gathered to play together for the dancers. They were an odd mix.

“A camp of over a thousand,” Feuilly muttered, “and a band of twelve players to serve them. What a sad state we’re in.”

“Better than nothing,” Bossuet said with a cheerful shrug. “I wonder if Grantaire knows how to whittle pipes? I can’t believe we didn’t think to ask him before. Do you know if he does, Combeferre?”

“He hasn’t mentioned it.” Combeferre watched as the motley band of musicians plucked and played at their various instruments. Five women, four pemmes, and three men, playing two guitars, two violins, two muchosas, a flute, a trumpet, a mandore, a bombard, an épinette des vosges, and, somewhat incongruously, a harmonica. “Not what you’d call a traditional mix, is it?”

“At least they’re making music.” Joly smiled at them. “My mother played the épinette. Two-handed, with a pick. She was the best in our village.”

“Not to disparage your mother,” Bossuet said, “but I think you’ll find that Monsieur Guénolé would have had something to say about that.”

Joly snorted. “Monsieur Guénolé was all flash and no fingers.” 

Combeferre leaned closer to Feuilly as the other two descended into excitable bickering. “Did you ever play anything?”

“Harmonica, actually.” A cheap instrument, beloved of street urchins for the way it could take a beating and still make a decent sound. Feuilly shot Combeferre a knowing smile. “Yeah, I know. And drums, of course, but nothing particular. You?”

“Piano and hand drum.”

“Wonder if Grantaire plays anything,” Feuilly mused. “Are Travellers musical folk?”

“I think so. He’s said they have lots of songs and dances, like we do. But I think some of them aren’t for outsiders to see or hear.”

“Odd. The whole point of music is to share it, I always thought.”

Combeferre shrugged. “Different sorts of people, I suppose.”

“The way Grantaire talks about them, you’d think they went around in hoods and cloaks, hissing at people to keep out of their business. But then Grantaire turns around and acts so different to that, I don’t know what to think.”

“I’d like to meet others,” Combeferre agreed, and then snorted. “Bel, I’d like to meet anyone in this country who isn’t a guard. It sounds like we’ll be living in isolated villages all by ourselves.”

“Some’ll prefer that. Little pieces of home.”

“But we’re not home.” Combeferre gestured to their surroundings. “This can’t ever be Kalarime. We have to learn to adapt. We have to have the Charter, for our own protection if nothing else.”

“Shhh.” Feuilly nudged him, and shook his head at Combeferre’s outraged expression. “I agree with you, but there’s no point in making waves now. Wait a bit, wait till we’re established. Go get baptised then, but don’t go shouting about it yet. Plenty of people are suspicious enough of Grantaire without thinking he’s brainwashed you into some sort of Old Kingdom cult.”

“But all the guards are part of it too!”

“Even more reason to be cautious. No one’s exactly lining up to put their trust in a foreigner’s hands right now. Just wait a bit.” Feuilly sighed. “I’ll be with you when we can make a move, but not before. And you’ve got much more to lose than me.”

“Like what?” Combeferre asked bitterly, but he knew what Feuilly meant. The Brideaus might not have been his blood family, but they treated him like he was. He would have been in their tent with them if he hadn’t insisted on sleeping apart.

“Mmhm.” Feuilly had seen the answer in his face, it seemed, and he was kind enough not to make Combeferre say it. 

They stayed and watched, along with a crowd of other people who were equally keen to hear proper instruments at work again and watch the little group of people dancing in the centre of the circle. Just contra dances for now, but Combeferre was looking forward to the afternoon, when more people would join in.

“This is why I liked the piano and the drum,” Combeferre told the others when they left. “You don’t get out of breath playing those.”

“And you can sing at the same time,” Bossuet agreed. “Like I used to with my mandore.”

Joly shook his head. “Give me an honest clarinet any day. No fiddling about with strings.”

“Not the chalumeau?” Feuilly teased. “Too good for it, were you?”

Joly shrugged. “I liked the sound of the clarinet better.”

“They’re basically the same instrument!”

“Pardon? Have you ever heard one played after the other? The sound is completely different, the tone –”

Combeferre snorted with laughter, and exchanged a grin with Bossuet. The two of them were perfectly content to stay quiet on the walk back to their group, unless it was to inject an airy opinion with the intent of spurring Feuilly and Joly on to louder and more emphatic defences of their respective positions.

“– can’t call the clarinet _honest_ when the chalumeau came first! That’s just a contradiction!”

“The clarinet usurped the chalumeau because it’s better, that’s all there is to it! The range is more than doubled on the clarinet!”

Grantaire and Enjolras came back earlier than usual, in time for a late lunch of breakfast leftovers. Grantaire gave two huge bags of greenery to Matelote and Gibelotte, who by now knew all of the plants Grantaire brought back to them and what to do with them. Some sort of soup would come out of it, Combeferre was sure.

Enjolras, as usual, slipped back to the Brideau tent without a word to any of them. There wasn’t time to dwell on it, not when Irma was trying to teach Grantaire to dance a troisquelle with her and Louison. “You’re impossible!” she huffed in Chellanian when Grantaire turned the wrong way for the third time in a row. “I turn left, Louison goes under my arm, you turn under my arm!”

“You’re going too fast,” Matelote sing-songed. “Stop trying to make him go at full speed. Louison, come here.” She and Gibelotte each wrapped an arm around Louison’s waist, and Grantaire stepped back to stand at Combeferre’s side with a smile as the three women counted themselves in and began to dance slowly.

Troisquelle dances were easily Combeferre’s favourites. More graceful than the quadrille, more skilled than any paired or contra dance (in his opinion). And Matelote, Gibelotte, and Louison were doing an excellent demonstration. A proper troisquelle had all three dancers holding hands at all times with at least one of the others. There was lots of twisting beneath each other’s arms, lots of spinning around each other, and Combeferre’s personal favourite, dancing in a line facing the same direction, one person between the other two, arms tucked neatly between bodies, feet in perfect time with each other.

“There are easier dances,” Feuilly whispered to Grantaire. “You don’t have to do this one.”

“It looks fun though,” Grantaire whispered back, eyes still on the women. They had changed the order of their line seamlessly, hands taking other hands, circles and lines forming and reforming to the beat of Matelote’s firm count.

“Let’s try it then,” Feuilly grinned, taking Grantaire’s hand. “Come on. Combeferre, join in!”

Combeferre had no choice but to obey. They started with Grantaire in the middle, each of them holding one of his hands. Grantaire seemed torn between uncertainty and happiness, and Combeferre resisted the urge to squeeze his hand, remembering how upset he’d looked just at admitting to desiring men. Better to act as if this was exactly what it was – just three friends practicing a dance. 

They moved slowly, with Feuilly directing them both. “Now you lift your arms up, Grantaire, and we spin underneath them like this…and then Combeferre comes behind you, that’s right, and I go left…”

Grantaire followed instructions well enough, eyes narrow in concentration and any discomfort fading fast as he focused on just learning the steps. He even laughed when Combeferre messed up a step and earned an outraged squawk from Feuilly.

An hour or so after everyone had eaten, they all headed off to the centre of the camp to join the afternoon dancing. Even Corin and Louis came, chivvied along by Yvette’s insistence that nobody wanted to stay behind and watch them.

Combeferre always forgot how much he enjoyed dancing until midsummer came around. He and Courfeyrac had gone dancing in the public halls in Touléon while they’d been at university, but it was always more fun at midsummer. Probably because it wasn’t all about young people finding a partner for the night, he supposed. Midsummer was a time for families and children, for everyone regardless of age. 

The musicians were playing as loudly as they could manage, and there was a huge contra dance happening in the cleared space, at least a hundred people in four lines clapping and skipping and spinning around each other, shrieks of laughter carrying above the raucous noise. A Kingdom guard Combeferre suspected was Jehan was standing at the edge of the crowd, clapping along enthusiastically.

The next dance was for pairs, and Combeferre stood next to Grantaire and laughed as Joly dragged Bossuet out into the space, loudly protesting that his leg would survive one dance, and if Bossuet didn’t like it then he would find another partner. After a second Grantaire nudged him and nodded with wide eyes to Valjean leading a stone-faced Javert out as well.

“About time,” Combeferre muttered, amused. 

“I didn’t know they were…you know. Like that.” Grantaire sounded as stunned as if he’d taken a blow to the head.

“They are complicated.” Combeferre watched them with a small smile on his face. Despite his expression, Javert danced willingly and well with Valjean. The two of them only had eyes for each other. “You know Valjean is Fantine’s brother by adoption?”

“Aye.”

“Do you know why?” At Grantaire’s shaken head, Combeferre went on. “I was with Fantine when we crossed the mountains. We would have been caught if not for Valjean. He was on the run as well – he has been to prison, though I think he had not been recently released, or broken out. He never speaks of it. Anyway, he helped us, he saved our lives, and he stayed with us in Bajin. That was when he found Javert. They must have known each other a very long time, but I think they were on opposite sides – Valjean a criminal and Javert one of the police. But Valjean bought passage on the boat for Javert to come with us to Ancelstierre, and he’s been around ever since. Fantine adopted Valjean officially just two years ago.”

They watched as Valjean and Javert danced together, one smiling face, one stern, and applauded when the song ended. As they left what Combeferre was already thinking of as the dancefloor, he saw Javert give Valjean the smallest of smiles, more with his eyes than his mouth, but still there. On some half-understood instinct, Combeferre glanced over at Enjolras, who was also watching them. He knew very suddenly that if Enjolras were to look at him now, it would break his heart.

He missed Enjolras. He’d once thought they would be like Valjean and Javert, in love and dancing well into their sixties, and beyond. Did Enjolras ever miss him? Did Enjolras look at couples like Valjean and Javert and wish they could have that back? 

Combeferre dragged his eyes away, his chest tight. Enjolras had left him, he reminded himself. Enjolras had been the one to draw away, to make it clear that he wasn’t interested anymore. He wouldn’t have done that if he was in still in love with Combeferre.

He joined in the next contra dance, forcing himself not to dwell on melancholy feelings. Joly and Bossuet persuaded Grantaire into joining them for a troisquelle, and Feuilly joined them for a quadrille. Grantaire sat out the men’s dance, not knowing the steps, and Feuilly kept him company. Combeferre’s suspicions for that were confirmed when Feuilly got up to dance with the pemmes, hesitant at first, then surer when no one raised an objection despite his lack of necklace and shaved hair. 

The music and dancing kept Enjolras mostly from his mind, and by the time they headed back to their circle for dinner, Combeferre was feeling at ease again. The songs that evening were more of a mix than they had been the night before. The first night was traditionally a night of celebration, Combeferre told Grantaire. More original compositions would be performed now, and they could expect plenty of songs with the war as their subject matter.

“Won’t that be…I don’t know,” Grantaire said, face creased with uncertainty. “Sad? For people?”

“No,” Combeferre said, then tilted his head. “Well, yes. But in a good way.”

“Cathartic,” Fantine said softly from behind them. “It will be good to hear the grief of others. It is good to cry for what we have lost.”

She was entirely correct. Their circle had several excellent voices and composers who had obviously, like Bossuet, been working on songs for a long time in preparation for this opportunity. There was a hesitance in their circle, people sensing the mood and not wanting to be the first to step up. In the end Fantine rose and went to the centre.

Combeferre kept half an eye on Grantaire as she began, and he wasn’t disappointed. Fantine had a voice unlike any other he’d heard. Strong and with an excellent range, and never faltering. She sang a song Combeferre had heard her sing before, of a journey, and loneliness, and lost love, and survival made possible only by proud stubbornness. Grantaire watched with his mouth open, clearly stunned that this small woman had such a large, expressive voice inside her. He clapped loudly when she finished, and gave Combeferre a look that made him smile.

“She has a beautiful voice, no?”

“Very beautiful.” Grantaire let out a long breath, looking back up at the clearing as a man they didn’t know stood up and went to the middle. “Wow.”

“Yes.”

Bossuet and Musichetta didn’t perform their song until almost an hour later. Combeferre didn’t see Bossuet leave, but he saw him return holding one of the precious guitars. What he’d bartered to be allowed to use it, Combeferre couldn’t imagine. If the owner was lending it out like this, they would be rich indeed (by their meagre standards) by the end of midsummer.

Bossuet grinned and winked at Joly as he went to stand with Musichetta in the centre when their turn came. Combeferre had heard them practice before, but never with an instrument, and it made a startling difference. Even though their voices were the main focus of the song, the guitar gave them a depth they wouldn’t have achieved otherwise. And their voices were beautiful. Both quite high, both able to turn from soft to strong with no difficulty, perfectly in time, perfectly in tune. Combeferre was so entranced he didn’t even hear the lyrics for a few moments. They sang like they were in love, comforting each other as they ran from a nameless enemy. 

Joly was crying when they finished, and he wasn’t the only one. Combeferre’s own eyes were stinging, remembering the number of times Cosette had told him as they fled that they would be alright, that they would be safe soon, that there wasn’t far to go now. How many others here had heard similar reassurances from their friends and families?

“You should sing,” Musichetta whispered as she came back to sit with them afterwards, Bossuet gone to return the guitar.

“Me?” Combeferre gave her a startled look, and she rolled her eyes. 

“No, Grantaire. Sing us one of your songs. There will be a space after this.” She nodded to the centre, where two women and a pemme were singing now. “It will be free to whoever stands. You should sing.”

Grantaire shook his head though, shy. “Oh no, I’ve no songs good enough for this, and I’ve a poor voice compared to you anyway.”

“Not true,” Musichetta snorted. “You have sung for us before, remember? The song about the Destroyer, I remember it. You have a fair voice, very good enough for us.”

A few others had noticed the whispered conversation now, and Feuilly reached forward from behind them to clasp Grantaire’s shoulder. “We would be honoured,” he murmured. “Please, you must sing.”

“I can’t think of a song,” Grantaire said, sounding worried.

“You have time.” Musichetta nodded at the group of singers in the middle of the circle. “Please, sing for us.”

Grantaire gave Combeferre an uncertain look, and he found himself nodding. “It would be an honour, to hear a song of your people.”

Grantaire bit his lip. “I’ll…try to think of something then.”

He was used to performing, Combeferre remembered, so his reticence probably wasn’t down to stage fright. Instinctively, he reached out and squeezed Grantaire’s arm. “You will be fine.” Several people around the edges of the circle looked at them with expectation when the singers finished, and at the nod of one of them, beckoning him forward, Grantaire pushed himself to his feet and went to stand alone in the middle.

He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and began to sing. He did have a good voice. Combeferre hadn’t really noticed when he’d sung the song about the Destroyer, but he noticed now. It wasn’t as deep as he’d expected, and it wasn’t exactly smooth, but it suited Grantaire anyway. It was harder to follow Kingdom when it was sung, not spoken, but the song was a slow one. 

It wasn’t sad, exactly, but it definitely wasn’t happy. It was full of metaphors and comparisons, and it was about a journey that would never end. Combeferre supposed that was why Grantaire had chosen it, for the way it applied to the Southerlings. He could almost hear, in the gaps between verses, where there should have been an instrument or two filling in the empty space, or other voices joining Grantaire’s to sing in harmony. He could somehow tell that this wasn’t a song that was meant to be sung by one voice alone.

Grantaire sang it well though, and at the end gave a short bow and an embarrassed smile to the assembled circle as they applauded him. “Hardly a show,” he muttered as he took his seat on the ground next to Combeferre again.

“It was good,” Musichetta said firmly before anyone else could, and switched to Chellanian to get her point across properly. “A performer mustn’t criticise their own performance in front of the audience, it only makes them lose faith. If you have doubts, hide them, and go over it with a teacher if you want to improve. Putting yourself down is good for no one.”

Grantaire narrowed his eyes, then sighed and looked at Combeferre. “I got something about performing and a teacher?”

Combeferre grinned and translated what Musichetta had said, and Grantaire’s expression cleared. “Right. Thank you,” he added, giving Musichetta a small smile. She smiled back and settled into her place.

The mood turned a little more upbeat in the last hour or so, with people standing to sing in no particular order. Joly and Bossuet finished the night with a jaunty song from their home village, their arms around each other and their voices belting through the air.

Combeferre and Grantaire were heading back to where they’d slept yesterday when Enjolras appeared. Grantaire stopped so suddenly he swayed in place, and Combeferre didn’t have time to do more than form a worried thought before Enjolras spoke. “You sang very well,” he said quietly. A pause, and he glanced in Combeferre’s direction. They couldn’t have met each other’s eyes for more than a second, but it still sent a jolt through Combeferre like he’d been electrocuted. “Goodnight,” Enjolras muttered, and walked away.

“Well.” Combeferre said, recovering. He looked at Grantaire, who looked back at him and then hastily away. “He must like you a lot.” Combeferre smiled, trying to make a joke of it. “Remember how he was when you first arrived? And now look.”

“He likes you too,” Grantaire said, nonsensically, and shook his head like he was shaking water from his hair. “Ah, I’ll get our bedrolls.” He hurried away before Combeferre could reply or ask why he’d apologised, and he was left standing in place like a fool, feeling almost as though Enjolras and Grantaire had worked together to unmoor him. 

Grantaire didn’t mention it when he came back, so neither did Combeferre. Lying on his back and listening to the noise of the camp quieting down around him, he wondered suddenly whether Grantaire and Enjolras were interested in each other, and what they did when they went to the forest.

It shouldn’t hurt to think of it, he told himself, closing his eyes and fighting the urge to touch his chest. He shouldn’t be finding it difficult to breathe. They probably weren’t doing anything more than walking, like he did with Grantaire. They barely looked at each other when they were in the camp. Surely they weren’t…

It hurt to imagine it, and he rolled onto his side, facing away from Grantaire. He was just being stupid. There was no reason to believe that there was anything going on between them, even if some of the others had hinted at it before. Even Cosette had alluded to it. But Combeferre had, selfishly perhaps, only thought of Enjolras and Grantaire as they related to him, not to each other. 

He was selfish. Selfish and self-centred and short-sighted. How stupid, to imagine himself the centre of the world and think that he was the one trying to choose between Enjolras and Grantaire, when they had their own choices to make as well. What had made him think that Grantaire especially would even reciprocate his feelings? Did their friendship make such things inevitable?

Let them have each other, if that was what they wanted. They both deserved that. His hurt feelings were his own business, not theirs.


	8. Grantaire

Grantaire was looking forward to the final night of the Southerlings’ midsummer celebrations. Tonight the best of the singers from the last two nights would move from circle to circle in the camp until everyone had had the chance to hear them perform. Grantaire, thankfully, was not one of those few elected by everyone else to show himself off. Bossuet and Musichetta were though, and had already arranged to follow immediately after one of the guitar players so they would be able to borrow his instrument.

The dancing that afternoon was even wilder than yesterday’s had been. It made Grantaire wish for the Traveller’s Moot, and especially for Marius. If Marius were here, they could have really given them a show. An achanada performance to make the audience gasp and cheer, the way they’d loved doing whenever they stopped in a town or village. His ma would peddle her cures, his grandda and uncle would sell pelts and hides, and he and Marius would put on a show.

The Southerlings were putting on a show of their own though, and Grantaire’s blood sang at the sight of them. There was something utterly entrancing about watching a huge crowd of people dance the same steps, all of them linking hands and arms and twining in and out of each other like a snake folding back on itself over and over. It was beautiful, like watching flocks of starlings in flight.

Dinner was sparse and hurried, as if everyone was trying to forget the fact that it should have been a feast in order to move onto the main event of the evening a little faster. And the main event, when they came to it, was worth the wait.

Almost all the singers were accompanied by a musician or other singer to lend depth to their performances, and they were all excellent. The singing over the past two nights had already been good, but Grantaire could understand now why people south of the Wall apparently thought Kalarime the most musical country in the world.

Most of the songs were either new compositions, like Bossuet’s, or old favourites, like the first one they saw. Grantaire still had trouble catching the words, since everyone was singing in Chellanian, but Combeferre and Feuilly were willing to whisper translations, or at least the essence of the translation.

“This is about going home,” Feuilly whispered to him halfway through a song Grantaire had managed to pick out a few words from – goodbye, change, home, war. “How we will go home one day.” Several people were crying quietly. An uncle tightened his grip on a child in his arms, and a woman covered her face with her blue scarf. Perhaps there was something in the lyrics Grantaire was missing, because to him it sounded cheerful despite its subject matter. For all he had told Enjolras about Travellers having similar experiences, it was one thing to know he was descended from refugees himself, and quite another to be among people who had been forced to flee their homes and come thousands and thousands of leagues to find somewhere safe to live.

Was this what it had been like when his people had left their first world? The Rememberers said that there had once been six languages, and now there was only one. They said that once their people had been able to command the winds and rain. They had once been rooted. They had numbered in the tens, even hundreds of thousands. Had any of them believed that they would one day return to a home that had been destroyed behind them?

The singer’s last note faded to silence, and the following applause was loud and sincere. Grantaire’s hands faltered when he saw who the next singer was – Montparnasse. He still had absolutely no idea whether to think of Montparnasse as male or female, options beyond that being far beyond his limited field of experience, and for a moment didn’t even notice that Montparnasse had brought a trio of friends to presumably act as a chorus in the absence of an instrumental accompaniment. 

“I didn’t know Montparnasse was a singer,” he whispered, as Montparnasse strode into the centre of the circle.

“They are very good,” Feuilly whispered back, reminding Grantaire incidentally that Combeferre had mentioned some people referring to pemmes in the plural. “Wait and see. They aren’t a particularly nice person, but their voice makes up for it.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure whether a good voice could make up for a spiteful personality, but settled back to decide for himself. Montparnasse let the silence draw out for a second longer than necessary, making sure of everyone’s full attention before taking a deep breath and beginning to sing.

Feuilly hadn’t been wrong. Montparnasse had the voice of a fairy, as Grantaire’s ma would’ve said. Clear as water with the soaring quality of a falcon in flight. And the second the other singers added their voices, Grantaire understood why they needed no instrument. All together, they harmonised beautifully, perfectly, and even with his limited grasp of Chellanian Grantaire could understand it. The previous singer had assured the crowd that they would one day return home – Montparnasse asked how, with a painful mixture of bitterness and yearning that had Grantaire’s heart clenching in his chest.

It felt as though the whole world had quietened itself to listen. Not a breath of wind stirred the air, no one in the crowd moved, no one else in the camp seemed to be singing or speaking or making a sound. Montparnasse was singing; the mountains themselves would have bent down to listen.

There was a full beat of silence when they finished. Only Montparnasse bowing broke the audience out their stupor, and it took Grantaire a second to join in with the applause. He felt oddly out of breath, almost shocked. He felt as though Montparnasse had casually walked into the centre of the circle and cracked open their own ribcage, held their heart out for examination, and placed it carefully back inside. Hiding it from view once more.

“See what I mean?” Feuilly said over the applause, and grinned across Grantaire at Combeferre. “You might not like them, but you cannot deny they sing our truth.”

Combeferre looked as winded as Grantaire felt, and nodded reluctantly. “She is very skilled.”

Feuilly laughed and reached over to poke Combeferre’s shoulder. “Very skilled,” he agreed.

They quietened down as the next performer came into the circle. Grantaire couldn’t help wincing on their behalf – following Montparnasse was not something he envied. The singer grinned at the crowd though and made a joke too quick for Grantaire to understand, and that seemed to break the tension. Whoever had arranged the order of the singers was clever, Grantaire realised as she began to sing. Only something funny could have followed Montparnasse with any sort of success.

Song after song, and every performer was as talented as the last. Musichetta and Bossuet were greeted with whoops and whistles when they came to take their turn, and everyone joined in for the épinette player’s rousing choruses. The last for their circle was one of the guitar players and an accompanying violinist. They were brother and sister, the whisper went around quickly, and Grantaire could see the likeness – both had straight brown hair and large noses, and neither looked at the crowd as they found their place in the centre. 

The violin player closed her eyes, the guitar player bent his head to watch his fingers as they began to pluck out a quick, sad tune. It was a song Grantaire couldn’t really understand; too many unfamiliar words, and he thought that perhaps the man had an accent, or just a different way of singing. He repeated one phrase Grantaire managed to pick out after the fourth or fifth time – _stay here_ , or perhaps you stay here.

The guitar and violin picked up and became more intense as the song progressed, a sort of painful urgency driving it along, and something suddenly caught Grantaire’s attention to his right. Combeferre was tense, and a quick glance showed why – he was looking at Enjolras, whose expression was one of anguish.

Grantaire felt the shock as keenly as Combeferre probably was. Enjolras hadn’t even cracked a smile at the funny songs, hadn’t shed a tear during Montparnasse’s song. And now his hands were clenched in his lap and his forehead was creased as though he was stopping himself from screaming, or breaking down in sobs. On anyone else it wouldn’t have been so extreme, but Enjolras’ face was so often blank that even seeing his lips part seemed momentous. He’d looked like that in the forest, after walking backwards. 

Grantaire had never wished so fiercely that he could understand Chellanian. He wanted to know what the man could be singing that was making Enjolras look so upset. As the song drew to a close, Enjolras bowed his head and scrubbed one hand over his face, as though rubbing out any trace of how affected he’d been. 

After the applause, by some unspoken agreement or tradition everyone sat quietly until the sounds of two last performances at other circles ended. The guitar and violin player looked out beyond the seated audience to other performers on their feet, and at someone’s count began to sing again. Another song they all knew, Grantaire assumed, and was proved right when after the performers sang a first verse, everyone else joined in. Another verse, and everyone got to their feet, and Combeferre took Grantaire’s hand to pull him up with them.

He couldn’t even hum along. Everyone around him, even the children, all of them were belting out a rousing rendition of a song he’d never heard in his life. He was probably the only person in the camp who wasn’t singing, but the sting of loneliness hardly had a chance to settle in him before Joly and Bossuet had surrounded him, beaming and cheerful, bellowing the song in his face and throwing their arms around his shoulders to keep him included despite his silence.

“The Midsummer Chorus,” Joly explained breathlessly when they finished, everyone cheering and clapping and hugging each other.

“That wasn’t what you sang on the first night!” Grantaire protested. He had to shout to be heard over the noise, and laughed when Joly did.

“Different chorus!” was all he said, and leaned in to quickly kiss both Grantaire’s cheeks. Bossuet did the same a second later, and then (Grantaire’s heart leapt) Combeferre, and Feuilly, and Irma, and – Grantaire soon lost track, spinning helplessly between laughing people, kissing their cheeks in return.

The performances may have been over, but the night certainly wasn’t. Taking advantage of the open space, people milled between fires, sharing what food they had in fits of good spirit and generosity. Grantaire looked for Enjolras in the crowd, but couldn’t find him. When he realised Corin and Louis were gone as well, he knew that Enjolras must have gone back to the Brideau tent with them.

They didn’t sleep until the early hours of the morning. People stayed up all night telling stories and singing more songs, the musicians getting together to play the Kalarimian national anthem again to great cheers and whoops of approval. In many ways, it was like the last night of the Traveller’s Moot. Add a few more thousand people, hundreds of horses and wagons, a few giant bonfires…as Grantaire finally succumbed to sleep, he could imagine it easily, and Combeferre stretched out next to him could have been Marius in the dark.

Grantaire wasn’t sure whether Enjolras would come with him to the woods. They’d all slept in as late as possible, and most of the others were putting the tents back up and reorganising the campsite. The latrines were being dug again, and the food wagons were due later that day. Enjolras had seemed as busy as everyone else, helping to get the circle back to normal, but when Grantaire caught his eye he’d straightened and nodded immediately.

They were silent as usual as they walked through the bustling camp to the edge, and Enjolras kept his peace even after they were beyond its limits, and even after they reached the treeline. Grantaire held his tongue as well, not wanting to pester Enjolras if he wanted the quiet. If he came with Grantaire to escape the noise of the camp, after all, he must have been needing it more than usual after such a busy couple of days.

So Grantaire focused on the woods and took the most direct route to where he’d laid his traps, it being so late in the day already, and tried not to think of how Enjolras had looked last night during the last performance.

“You are moving quickly today,” Enjolras said after a while, as they came to the first of Grantaire’s snares. It was empty, and he sighed as he picked it up to check it over before resetting it.

“Aye, well, it’s already past noon.” Grantaire gave him an apologetic look as he straightened up. “I can leave you somewhere if you’d like?”

Enjolras considered it as though it was a question of grave importance, then dipped his head. “Yes, thank you.”

Grantaire nodded, and looked around. “How about here?” Enjolras went to stand by the nearest tree, and Grantaire took that as the sign to begin casting a diamond of protection. He could give Enjolras a small piece of quiet after what must have been an exhausting time. It wasn’t much, but he could do it. He finished the diamond, and said, “I’ll be back in a bit,” since Enjolras wouldn’t look at him.

For the first time, he felt lonely as he walked through the forest. He missed Rak, his dog. She would have been bounding alongside him or snuffling ahead through the undergrowth, her brown-black body hidden by the tall nettles and shrubs that were abundant now that summer had properly arrived. He missed Combeferre loping alongside him, talking about nothing with his kind sideways smile and crinkled eyes. He missed Enjolras, though he wasn’t even far behind. 

He hummed under his breath as he walked, trying to remember the tunes of the songs from last night, especially the one that had hurt Enjolras. If that was even what it had done. He couldn’t help remembering how he had only noticed because of Combeferre, and felt a familiar spasm of guilt, but an odd sort of hope alongside that.

Combeferre still cared deeply for Enjolras, that much was obvious, and had been obvious from the very beginning. And if Enjolras did ever mention Combeferre it was always with respect and sadness, as though he mourned something he’d lost. Which he had, when it came down to it. They’d lost each other. They might yet find each other.

Enjolras was pacing the length of the diamond when Grantaire returned to him, and stopped to watch in silence as Grantaire dismantled the Charter marks with a quick gesture. Perhaps it was something about how trapped he’d looked, like an animal in a cage, but Grantaire found himself asking as they started to walk back, “What was the last song yesterday about?”

Enjolras knew what he meant, Grantaire could tell, but he didn’t answer for several seconds. “It was about what it was like to run from Kalarime,” he said slowly. “In the moment itself, not the big picture. He did not sing at all of our home or what we left behind, but only of the running and hiding. The immediate dangers.”

“I couldn’t understand most of it,” Grantaire said, an odd feeling gripping his stomach. He could hardly believe he’d had the daring to ask Enjolras about it all. “It sounded like he was asking someone to stay behind?”

“No, to stay where they were. It was collective, plural.” Enjolras looked ahead, almost no expression on his face. “He was asking the people he was travelling with to stay where they were as he went out to look for things they needed. Food, and water, and warmer clothing. He must have run in the winter,” he added quietly. “He was trying to protect the people who were with him.”

“You looked sad, when he was singing.” Sad was the wrong word, but Grantaire couldn’t think of another.

“Yes.” Enjolras closed his eyes for a moment, and Grantaire slowed his pace a little to match him. “Has Combeferre told you about what we did in Touléon, before the war? What we protested against?”

“No.” Grantaire gave him a cautious look, not sure where this was going. “He doesn’t talk much about that sort of thing.”

“The government, they were engaging in practices we did not agree with. Capital punishment, you have this here, yes?”

“When you kill criminals?” Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “Aye, but only for the worst crimes.”

Enjolras shook his head. “No person should ever judge another’s life to be worth less than their own in this way. To kill another person is the worst crime a person can commit, even if it is done in the name of justice, and even if it is to avenge another crime. It is wrong. It taints the killer forever. We all believed this, especially Combeferre. We wanted the government to abolish this practice, to promise never again to execute people. It can be too easily abused. Do you understand?”

Grantaire wanted to agree, but had to shrug awkwardly. “I don’t know that I do, in truth. Sometimes you have to kill people to stop them. I don’t know how much death you’d seen afore you left your home, but it’s around a lot here. Maybe we’re just more used to it.”

“No one should ever have to get used to death,” Enjolras said fiercely, and Grantaire shrugged again.

“I’ve had two siblings and an aunt die in front of me from sickness, and killed a man when I had to. Death’s part of life.”

“You have killed someone?” 

Grantaire looked at Enjolras, worrying for a second that he shouldn’t have said. But Enjolras didn’t seem revolted or horrified, just shocked.

So he said, “Aye. Few years back, some men reckoned my uncle cheated them on hides he was selling, and they got drunk and came to our vans in the middle of the night.” Talking about it still made him angry, and he made an effort to keep it from his voice as much as he could. He wanted to sound like Enjolras did when he was talking about the terrible things that had happened to him – distant, as though it had happened to somebody else. “They tried to burn them down, with my family inside. If it weren’t for our dogs, and for me and Marius sleeping outside cause of the heat, they might’ve done it. Our Lilibet, she wasn’t more than a baby, she couldn’t even _walk_ yet, and they’d seen her at the market, they’d known she was in there.

“Marius and me, we attacked them, we had to. And we weren’t trying to kill them, but we weren’t trying not to, if you know what I mean. It was dark, we all had knives, and mine found a target. I’m not sorry,” he added, mindful of what Enjolras had been saying about any sort of killing being a crime. “They would’ve killed us, all of us. The other four got away. We left a Charter mark saying our piece on a stone next to the body, and we left marks outside the village to warn off other Travellers, and we went quick, that night, and we’ve not gone back. It en’t nice, but sometimes it’s necessary.”

“It shouldn’t be!” 

Grantaire stopped and stared, and stared more as Enjolras pressed the heel of one hand to his eyes, one at a time. “Enjolras?”

“It should not ever be necessary,” Enjolras said, not looking at him. “It should never happen. The world should not be like this, that we have to kill for any reason, even if it is for a good one. I wish…I killed people,” he confessed, and Grantaire had guessed but hadn’t imagined that he would sound so distraught, as though saying it cost him something painful. “I killed people,” Enjolras said again, pressing both hands to his eyes now. “I cannot…I walk back to it all the time, and I dream of it all the time, and I cannot…” 

“You’re not a bad person,” Grantaire said, some part of him understanding and another bewildered by Enjolras’ grief at killing people to protect himself. “Killing people who’re trying to kill you en’t the same as being a murderer.”

“What is the difference?” Enjolras snarled, dropping his hands and glaring at Grantaire. “The result of both is the same.”

“Not for the killer.” Grantaire opened and closed his hands, searching for the right thing to say. “Not for you. It’s _not_ the same. You’re not…” Charter, what to say? “You’re not perfect,” he tried. “No one is. Sometimes you have to do things you hate to live, that’s just the way it is. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last, not even if execution is outlawed.”

“It makes me a killer.” Enjolras looked at his hands. “I have…I did not think to live this long. I hoped I would not. I don’t want to live like this, with these awful dreams, knowing what it feels like to kill someone.”

“Am I just a killer then?” Grantaire snapped, a horrible panicky feeling taking hold of him. “Is that all I can ever be? And I bet there’s plenty others in your camp who’ve had to do horrible things to make it here alive. Don’t they deserve to live?”

“Of course they do.” Enjolras shook his head though, and Grantaire strode forward. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do until he had both hands clamped around Enjolras’ shoulders hard enough to jolt Enjolras’ whole body.

“But you don’t? Don’t be so stupid.” Grantaire gave him another little shake. “Stop – _look_ at me, will you?” Enjolras did, and Grantaire had no idea whether or not he was about to get knocked on his rear, but hurried on anyway. “I wish you could see yourself like I do. You’re not _tainted_ or anything like that. You’re just a man. And you’re one of the best men I’ve ever met, so stop…acting like you’re some sort of monster, cause you’re not.”

There was a long moment of silence, of Enjolras staring at him and of Grantaire realising slowly just how close they were, and how hard he was gripping Enjolras’ shoulders. And before he could stop himself he glanced at Enjolras’ lips, like the idiot he was. Heat rushed to his cheeks and he let go of Enjolras abruptly. He opened his mouth to apologise, but then Enjolras was leaning in, and Grantaire didn’t have time to speak before he was being kissed.

It was like casting oil on a flame. His stomach swooped brilliantly, his hands stunned into stillness for a second before settling on Enjolras’ arms, arms which were suddenly moving, and Grantaire tilted his head and pressed upwards as Enjolras’ hands slid around his waist, large and warm over his shirt. He couldn’t breathe, he literally couldn’t get a full breath of air into his lungs. Enjolras’ lips were on his; he couldn’t think straight, couldn’t do anything except kiss back, following half-addled instincts to get closer, to touch Enjolras as much as he could. He managed to get a hand in Enjolras’ hair and felt his breathing skip when one of Enjolras’ hands clenched in the fabric of his shirt. Enjolras kissed him deeper, releasing his grip on Grantaire’s shirt only to move his hand to Grantaire’s face, to put his palm against Grantaire’s jaw, the curve of his fingers against his cheek so gentle it made Grantaire’s knees weak.

It was beautiful. That was the only thing Grantaire could think, when his mind had stopped reeling. He never wanted it to end. If Enjolras could always be touching him like this, he would be happy. _They_ could be happy. It was beautiful, like sunlight. And Enjolras was just as warm.

He had no idea how long it lasted. Long enough for his heart to slow down, for the tiny gap between the fronts of their bodies to become maddening. Long enough for the kissing to become less frantic, more exploratory. More careful. Grantaire was about to risk closing the gap between them completely when Enjolras stopped kissing him. They stood still, hands still on each other, and Grantaire’s eyes were still closed when Enjolras stepped away.

Grantaire’s hands fell to his sides and he opened his eyes slowly, looking at Enjolras. His lips were wet, chestnut hair mussed, and he was looking down at nothing. “Thank you,” he said after a second, lifting his gaze to meet Grantaire’s. 

Grantaire’s head jerked in a small approximation of a nod, his mind both racing and completely blank. “Aye,” he managed to mumble at last, forcing his tingling legs into motion, if only to turn his body away from Enjolras’. “I suppose…should get back, we should…”

“Yes.”

What was happening? What had just happened? Grantaire made himself walk, glad that at least it meant Enjolras couldn’t see his face if he did. He couldn’t hold onto a single thought, even his questions slipping through his mind like water. 

It had happened. Now they were walking back to the camp. That was all there was to it.

The walk back seemed to last much longer than normal. It gave Grantaire time to cool down though, and he wondered if Enjolras had been similarly affected. Why had he done it? 

Well, Grantaire wasn’t about to ask him. 

He barely noticed the camp as they walked back into it. He didn’t see Enjolras peel away from him as they got back to the circle. He went with Combeferre and a few of the others to the river to do some laundry and washing up, but couldn’t remember afterwards whether he’d behaved like himself or talked to them at all. The world seemed muffled and distant. 

The only thing that penetrated the strange fog was the growing sense of shame, which increased every time Grantaire thought of Combeferre. He couldn’t fully understand it, or why he couldn’t understand it. It was like he couldn’t get enough space to think. There was so much noise, so many people talking, so much going on all around him. He couldn’t turn without seeing more people, endless people, their blue scarves and hats like a strange cold sea around him, rising up over his head.

Was this how Enjolras felt all the time? Was this why he so craved the solitude of the woods?

It only slowed down when Grantaire was in Combeferre’s tent that night, the camp settling down around them. He must have eaten, but he couldn’t remember it. What was he going to do tomorrow, when Combeferre came to the woods with him? Should he tell him? What would happen the day after that, when Enjolras was the one to accompany him into the trees? Would they kiss again?

He wanted to kiss Enjolras again. 

The shame rose up like an awful flood – Combeferre was right next to him, so close that Grantaire could feel the heat of his body, and thinking about this felt wrong in his presence. He never usually had any problems falling asleep, but he lay awake for what must have been hours, listening to the camp fall asleep around him, even hearing a few people waking from nightmares or going to the latrines.

He must have drifted off eventually, because when Combeferre woke up in the morning, Grantaire jerked awake with a start that made Combeferre laugh, scratchy from sleep. “It’s only me,” he whispered. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Grantaire mumbled, eyes squeezed shut against the light. “Is it breakfast time?”

“Nearly.” Combeferre patted his shoulder and slipped out of the tent. Grantaire opened his eyes slowly, and reached up to touch his shoulder where Combeferre had. He still had no idea what he was going to do. Or what he was supposed to do – was there etiquette for this among Southerlings?

The panic in his chest had risen to a horrible cold buzz by the time he had shaved and eaten with the others, and he knew that any moment Combeferre would catch his eye –

“Monsieur Grantaire!”

Grantaire jumped, and looked around, following the turn of everybody else’s heads to see who had spoken.

It was one of the people who had dined with them at Fantine’s invitation, perhaps a week or two ago. A young woman, still more a child than not. “Monsieur,” she said again, eyes wide, and went on in Chellanian that Grantaire was amazed to find he understood. “One of the guards says there is another Traveller in the next camp, the one just south of us. He said he’s the same clan as you. Does that mean he’s your family?”

Grantaire shook his head, but managed a smile. “Only like other Kalarimians are your family,” he said slowly. “Thank you for telling me.”

She gave him a wide smile and curtseyed before running off again. At his side, Gibelotte snickered. “You have an admirer,” she said.

“A what?”

“She fancies you,” Feuilly said in Kingdom, his smile equally amused. “Isn’t that sweet?”

“Ah…”

They all laughed at whatever awkward expression was on Grantaire’s face, and he shook his head again, getting to his feet and trying to laugh with them. “I’m going to speak to the guards, see what more they know.”

“We will come.” Fantine rose to her feet as well. “It is supply day.”

Of course, which was doubtless why the girl had been hanging around the guard’s station. Grantaire was just relieved for the excuse to avoid being alone with Combeferre, which wasn’t something he’d ever thought he’d be relieved about. 

He went with Fantine, Valjean, and Javert to the guard station, which wasn’t so much a station as a tent on the southwest edge of the camp, currently crowded with people come to collect their rations. The Brideaus and Javert joined the queue, but Grantaire went to the front to find a friendly guard.

“Knew you’d be along soon,” Bahorel said as soon as he saw Grantaire. “Word travels like wildfire in a camp this small. You heard about the Finonn Traveller in the next camp down then?”

“Aye.” Grantaire frowned. “A Traveller alone?”

“Just like you!” Bahorel laughed. “Birds of a feather, as they say.”

“Have you seen him?”

“No, heard of it from a friend of mine down the line. I was saying how the Southerlings had dragged you into their midsummer celebrations – don’t think I didn’t hear about that – and she said the exact same thing had happened with them. This Traveller’s been with them since the beginning, longer even than you.”

Grantaire frowned harder. “How long is that? Longer than a year?”

“Oh yes. This one’s been moving north with a family of Southerlings, my friend said. Right attached, sounds like.”

Grantaire didn’t know what to think, and found himself asking, “How far south is the next camp?”

“Only a day’s journey. You could go back with our lot this afternoon if you’re keen.” Bahorel nodded to the wagon. “It’ll be an overnight stop, but you’d have nothing to worry about.”

Grantaire nodded. “Thanks, Bahorel.”

“Most welcome.” Bahorel slapped his shoulder. “I’ll see you later then?”

He decided on the spot. “Aye. I’ll be back later.”

He explained the situation to Fantine before he went back to the camp, passing some of the others on the way to collect their own rations – Matelote, Louison, Irma, and Bossuet. He told them as well, and told everyone else when he got back to the circle. 

A cruel part of him whispered that he was only using this as an excuse to run away from Combeferre and Enjolras, but he ignored it. He would be back in a few days, at most, he told everyone. He just wanted to see a fellow Traveller and catch up on any news they might have.

In truth, he wanted to see if they were rooted, as he was worried he was becoming. It had been so long since he’d met another Traveller, another Finonn especially, that he found that he needed to be sure he still was one himself. A Traveller who became rooted was no Traveller. He needed to speak his own tongue again with someone who understood. Someone who knew the path, as they said. Someone who would know his path, because it was their path too.

There wasn’t time to go to the woods and check his traps. Bahorel had said afternoon, but on a quick day the wagon might leave before noon, and Grantaire wanted to be on it. A day’s journey would go a lot easier if he wasn’t on foot all the way, and it would be much safer with company too.

Walking with the guards on the way to the southern camp was a strange experience. He’d almost forgotten that he could be familiar with Kingdom rachem as well as his own people, and as well as Southerlings. The guards were happy to tell him about the horse fairs they’d been to, the Travellers they knew from their homes further north. When Grantaire told them the routes his family had always taken up and down the country, one of them asked him if he knew any songs or stories.

What would he have thought of himself a year ago if he could have looked forward into the future like the Clayr and seen himself bellowing drinking songs with a wagon of Kingdom guards bawling along, the racket enough to drive the birds from the hedgerows and trees? What would his ma have thought?

They pushed on into the evening to reach the southern camp before it grew too dark to stay safely on the road (and it was a road by this point, a clear and well-used path between camps, made by guards and wagons regularly using it), and Grantaire accepted a bowl of soup with a promise to repay the kindness and slept under a wagon. That he was weary from the journey made him want to laugh, the idea of a Traveller tired after a day on the road as ridiculous as a bird flying backwards.

He ate breakfast with the guards, and found himself teased for using his portion of water to shave like a Southerling. He went along with the jokes, not even minding them, and once he was ready, asked where he could find his fellow Traveller.

“He’s with the big group right in the middle,” one of the guards said, in the middle of braiding her hair back. “I’ll show you, if you like.”

“I’d be much obliged, mistress.” Grantaire gave her a nod that she returned, and once she was done with her hair they set off. 

It was bewildering, how familiar and yet strange this camp was compared to what he instinctively wanted to think of as his own. He hadn’t realised how accustomed he’d become to the faces he saw every day, and how he’d learned every path through the tents to places like the stream and the woods and the guard station. The way he longed to return to the camp he knew alarmed him – roots formed like this, through too much familiarity with a specific place. It was only now obvious to him how attached he’d already become.

“Elina,” the guard called. “Where’s your Traveller? I’ve a friend for him.”

“I’ll take him on then.” An elderly woman with one clouded-over eye stood up from where she’d been sitting in front of a small tent. “He’s with the children.”

The guard patted Grantaire’s shoulder and left him, and Grantaire remembered his manners in time to bow to the woman she’d left him with. “Bonjour, madame.”

“You speak Chellanian?” She laughed, delighted, and took his arm. “This way, young man. Where did you learn that?”

“The northern camp, madame.” Grantaire couldn’t help smiling. “I’ve been living with the folk there awhile, and I’ve learned what I can.”

“You speak more than just hello?”

“A little.” Grantaire cleared his throat and introduced himself, and asked her her name as well.

“Trés bien! Henri Lizot, monsieur, c’est moi. Henri Lizot.”

Grantaire tried instinctively for a second to figure out whether Henri was a male or female name before remembering that she might be a pemme, and it didn’t really matter in any case. “Lizot?” He realised suddenly. 

“Oui! Ah, here he is – Marius! Someone’s come looking for you, my boy!”

Grantaire felt the name land like a blow to the chest. Of all the names, why did this Traveller have to share a name with his cousin? What sort of horrible luck was that?

But then a man was standing up and turning around, and he was lanky like Marius, had sticking-out ears like Marius, and freckled skin like Marius’ when he’d been out in the sun –

“Aire?” 

Grantaire couldn’t move. A Dead Hand, that was his first thought, but this man was obviously alive. Ridden by some sort of Free Magic creature? But Grantaire couldn’t feel the metallic buzz of anything that shouldn’t have been there. This man was alive, and he looked like Marius. Tanned skin, freckles, wide eyes, flyaway hair, all of it. 

“Aire…”

“Blood of my blood,” Grantaire whispered, reaching for tradition when his mind couldn’t find anything else solid enough to hold onto. He spoke in Fye, their own tongue, and kept his eyes on Marius’ face. 

“Grantaire –”

“Blood of my blood.” Almost insistent, and Marius broke into a trembling smile and reached out to take his wrists in his hands.

“Blood of my blood,” he repeated. “Kin of my kin.”

Grantaire gripped Marius’ forearms tightly, he could feel them shaking. “Kin of my kin. True to clan –”

They spoke together. “To ink, to the path.”

Marius let go of one of his wrists and for a moment seemed like he was going to cup Grantaire’s face. He lowered it at the last second to Grantaire’s shoulder instead, squeezing tightly. “Aire, how…”

“To the Moot I went,” Grantaire said, voice cracked. “You were absent.”

“How did you survive?” Marius spoke over him, eyes filling with tears, his grip tight enough to bruise. Grantaire wanted it to – he still wasn’t sure how this could be real. 

“The river, you went under.” Grantaire lifted the hand Marius had pulled free of and did touch Marius’ face. His little cousin, irritatingly taller than him by a couple of fingers. “Impossible,” he said out loud, voice shaking. “Charter, how? Under you went, I saw!” He wanted to hug him, but didn’t want to look away from his face. “You sank!”

“No.” Marius hugged him then, and Grantaire swallowed back tears as he held onto Marius so tight he was probably hurting him. “No, you were mistaken, nearly I did, and broke my leg! My collarbone also. I did almost die, twas fearful close – my head I hit, unconscious for weeks I was, but _you_ drowned, I thought! When remember I did, for sure I thought you were drowned because if I almost died then you surely had because the better swimmer I was always, so you were dead for sure and certain I thought, how are you alive?” 

“How are _you_ alive?!” Grantaire demanded, drawing back and shaking Marius by the shoulders, wild hysteria burning through him, so strong he felt out of breath, winded. Marius was crying and laughing at the same time, and Grantaire felt something wet drop down his own cheek. “To the Moot I went! You were not there, where were you?”

“My head I hit!” 

“What has that to do with it?”

“Who I was I forgot!”

Grantaire laughed wildly, letting go of Marius with one hand to swipe at his eyes. “You…of course you did, only you, only Fleet Marius of the Finonn would hit his head and lose his memory, believe you I cannot!”

“You were dead, I believed.” Marius had tipped fully into crying now, and dragged Grantaire into another bone-cracking hug. “You were dead, I thought I was left alone, the only one.”

“No.” Grantaire hiccupped, the realisation sinking into him and kindling a warmth like fire in his blood. “You are not. We are not. Charter…Marius, _Marius_ , that you live I cannot believe!”

“And you!” One of Marius’ legs buckled suddenly, and they both fell clumsily to the ground, laughing through their tears. 

“How long is the time you’ve here delayed?” Grantaire asked him, sitting back on his knees to stare at Marius, trying to see the differences. “Why have you stayed here?”

“These friends, they took me in – not here only, they were Southerlings who pulled me from the river after the Dead attacked,” Marius explained breathlessly. He sat more awkwardly, stretching his right leg out with a wince and then settling. “They knew not the meanings of my ink, of course, and neither did I, and in the forest they were hiding, on the run, and still they saved my life, even when their pace was slowed by my injury. With this camp have I been for months, ages, with – Courfeyrac!” he called, lighting up and throwing a hand out to someone behind Grantaire. “Courfeyrac! _Regarder!_ ”

“Courfeyrac?” Grantaire twisted, shock coursing through him all over again. A handsome young man with a face as dark as a Clayr’s and a slow, uncertain smile on his face was standing there, and Grantaire stared at him. “Lizot Courfeyrac?”

“It’s my cousin!” Marius said, not hearing him in his excitement and switching to Kingdom. After speaking Fye for the first time in so long, for a second it muddled Grantaire’s head to hear the different order of words. “It’s Grantaire! He’s alive, he survived the Ratterlin like me!”

Courfeyrac’s smile turned bright and sunny and he knelt next to them and took Grantaire’s hand in both of his to shake. “I cannot believe it! This is amazing – Marius!” He laughed and pulled Marius into a tight hug.

Grantaire grabbed Courfeyrac’s wrist as soon as he let Marius go. “Your name’s Courfeyrac Lizot?”

“That is me!” Courfeyrac was beaming, and hope had Grantaire’s chest in a vice.

“From Kalarime?”

“Have you heard my name before?” Courfeyrac laughed, tilting his head in sudden curiosity like a bird.

“Do you know Enjolras Brideau?” Grantaire saw the answer in the way Courfeyrac’s smile vanished, his eyes going wide with shock of his own. His wrist twisted under Grantaire’s hand as he gripped Grantaire’s arm in return.

“You know Enjolras?”

“And Combeferre!” Grantaire started to laugh again, half sure he was dreaming by now. “I’ve been living with them, in the camp to the north! Only a day away from here!”

“They are well?” Courfeyrac gasped, his other hand flying to Grantaire’s shoulder. “They are safe?”

“They’re hale and hearty.” Grantaire grinned. “They’ve been looking for you!”

“And the rest of the Brideaus?”

“Well! Oh.” He remembered that Courfeyrac had been left behind with the Brideaus left Bajin and frowned, trying to remember. “They lost folk on the boat to Ancelstierre. Elise, and somebody else. I’m sorry, I can’t remember who.”

“Elise?” Courfeyrac’s dismay was terrible, his eyes shining. “Louis and Corin’s mother?”

“Aye.” Grantaire squeezed his wrist. “I’m sorry.”

“The boys.” Courfeyrac shook his head and let go of Grantaire to press one hand over his face for a moment. “And Aline as well… But Enjolras and Combeferre are well? I must go to them.” He took Grantaire’s hands in his. “Can you take me to them?”

“Ah…” Grantaire looked at Marius, and Courfeyrac hurried on, reaching out to take one of Marius’ hands as well.

“Marius too! Marius, you can come, you should meet them, I want them to meet you as well.” He smiled when Marius did.

“Alright.”

“Excellent! I must tell my mother, don’t go anywhere without me!” Quick as a fox, Courfeyrac leapt to his feet and bolted for a nearby gap between two tents. 

Marius laughed and gripped Grantaire’s shoulder. “You look like you’re the one who was hit over the head!”

“I feel like it.” Grantaire laughed weakly and lowered his face into his hands. “I can’t believe this. I find you, _and_ Courfeyrac in the same day, and you’re his friend, and I’m going to take him back to Enjolras and Combeferre.” What a way to repay their kindness to him. Though it was down more to luck than any sort of skill or effort on his part, so perhaps it would be better not to take any sort of credit for it. “And you’re alive,” he said, lifting his head to drink the sight of Marius in front of him in.

Marius reached for his hands again, and they held onto each other’s wrists, palms over the thin skin where their shared blood ran close to the surface. Unbidden, they bent towards each other until their foreheads touched, and Grantaire closed his eyes and slowly pulled his breathing under control. 

There was shouting and exclamations in Chellanian coming from the direction Courfeyrac had run in, but Grantaire ignored it all. “It is now only us,” he whispered in Fye. His shoulders heaved on a sob as Marius let go of one of his hands and cupped the back of his head, and he mimicked the gesture with Marius.

“No one else survived?” Marius asked, his tone telling Grantaire that he already knew the answer.

“As soon as possible I went back. Only…” It hurt to say in Fye so much more than in Kingdom. “Our horses and dogs were the only ones left, drained and bled. No bodies to burn.”

“Lilibet…”

“Yes.” Grantaire’s face crumpled, and Marius pulled him forward so both of them had their faces hidden in the other’s shoulder. “There was nothing left,” he mumbled into Marius’ shirt. “Only blood, and the vans. To stay was not possible, and since I have not returned.”

“We will go together.” Marius’ fingers swept through his hair, exactly the way Grantaire’s ma had always done when she was comforting one of them. She’d been a mother to both of them since Dyna’s death, and Grantaire took several deep breaths to push his grief down. He would never see his ma again, but at least he had Marius. 

“Tread the same path,” he muttered, and Marius laughed into his shoulder, his breath warm.

“Always.”

They held each other for a few moments more before the clamour surrounding them became too much to ignore, and they had to get to their feet. Marius was definitely favouring his left leg, and Grantaire frowned. Before he could ask about it, they were being addressed by Courfeyrac’s family in Chellanian too fast for Grantaire to follow. There were so many of them that Grantaire would have felt lost if not for Marius, standing at his shoulder the way he always had. 

Grantaire had never expected them to be able to stand together like that again.

Everything seemed to blur together in a whirl of noise and movement, Marius chattering away in Chellanian as though he’d been born a Southerling, and Grantaire just let it all wash over him, accepting kisses and handshakes with a sort of bemused attempt at a smile that was becoming more strained by the minute.

He ended up alone with Marius, Courfeyrac’s conversation with his mother drawing away the attention of the Lizots. “We will go as soon as possible,” Marius whispered in Fye. “If you are well?”

“A favour I owe to the guards who fed me,” Grantaire remembered. “Then we can go.”

“The debt is mine,” Marius said. “On the way out, I will tell them it is so.” Travellers from the same band or clan could and did exchange debts and favours, and the guards were unlikely to mind.

Grantaire nodded, and looked at him properly, feeling as though he was trying to catch his breath. “You were pulled from the Ratterlin by Southerlings?”

“Further downriver than you must I have been swept,” Marius said. “We were close to Qyrre, we arrived there after a few days and their interpreter I became, to ensure they were not cheated. They kept me alive and to a healer delivered me. Not as strong as it was is my leg, but it is no longer as bad as it was.”

“Qyrre…” Grantaire shook his head. “Not as far down as that was I, and since you are the better swimmer for sure you’d be upriver from me, I thought. When no corpses I found I thought…out of the woods to Callibe I came. Made it up to the Moot and joined a band after. Didn’t last.” 

“Why?”

“The load I shared poorly. The nights…frights I had, and backwards I walked – have you heard them say that here?”

Marius nodded. “Courfeyrac said they call it that.”

“Fit in did I not. Stuck it out over the winter, but left in spring, and then my friends I found, north of here.” Grantaire gave him a quick retelling of how he’d saved Combeferre, Feuilly, and Bossuet from the Dead Hand and been accepted into their circle and the camp afterwards. “Didn’t want to move on till them settled I’d seen,” he finished, a little embarrassed. “Is that what you’re doing?”

“Of a sort.” Marius glanced over his shoulder at Courfeyrac, now being loaded down with supplies and protesting at the weight of the pack his family was putting on his shoulders. “Those Southerling friends of mine in Qyrre were good people. They had escaped from a prison camp or something alike at the Red Lake, down by Edge. Sounded like many a horror was coming out of there, and the rachem in Qyrre said the King and the Abhorsen were abroad near constant, just to deal with broken Charter stones and Free monsters and the Dead. Princess Ellimere ruled up in Belisaere in their stead. 

“And then the Abhorsen and Lirael Goldenhand destroyed the Destroyer and the Prince promised land to all the Southerlings, and then some of those Southerling friends of mine in Qyrre decided to go and meet the other refugees coming over the Wall, to help them and see if they could find any of their own families, and with them I went. Memories of mine having been recovered by then, but your death I was certain of, and with friends – a new band – wished I to stay, so to the Wall with them went. And there well met with Courfeyrac. And then…well, with he and his family have I been since then.” He smiled, so happy it made Grantaire’s heart ache to see it, to realise he could see it, and realising he’d been forgetting what Marius looked like. 

“Alright!”

They looked around at Courfeyrac, who looked as though he was preparing to go on a month-long trek into the mountains. Marius snorted with laughter, and Courfeyrac pointed at him. “Don’t you start. I notice you haven’t got anything packed!”

Marius grinned and went into a little tent nearby, emerging as he tied his bedroll to a much smaller shoulder pack. “Ready.”

“Typical.” Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “I should get Maman to adopt you, then you could be fussed over as well. Quick, let’s go before she adds something else to my pockets.”

On their way out, Marius gave the guards the promise of an evening’s entertainment when he returned in exchange for feeding and guiding his cousin, and then they were out on the road. Marius took a thick branch from under a tree not long after they started and used it to walk with, and Grantaire realised very quickly that Courfeyrac was exactly as charming as Combeferre had said, and twice as friendly. He also knew Marius very well, and was as attentive to him as a brother.

Marius, though very clever in his own way, had always been a little naïve. Grantaire was relieved that he’d had good fortune in his companions – there could be no one more fortunate than a companion of Courfeyrac, who was gifted with the sort of natural charisma his ma would have called _gleaming_. It was impossible to walk with Courfeyrac and not talk to him, and impossible to talk to him and not feel as though he wanted nothing more than to be talking to you.

They were obliged to walk at a slower pace than Grantaire would have normally kept, because of Marius’ leg. For all Courfeyrac’s impatience to see his friends, he never said a word to imply he resented their speed, and he was the first to suggest they find somewhere to rest and camp for the night.

“Well liked by you he wishes to be,” Marius told Grantaire in Fye, the two of them alone for a moment as Courfeyrac went to relieve himself. He was grinning, amused, and Grantaire laughed.

“He cares why?”

“Because he well likes me, and he knows how important you are to me.” Marius nudged him. “Do you like him?”

It was warming in the extreme to hear Marius put him before Courfeyrac in a sentence. Not _is he to your liking_ or something similar, but simple and direct, _do you like him._ In Fye, the order of people and things in speech was of high importance, and for all that it was natural for Grantaire to come before Courfeyrac to Marius, as his blood family, it was a distinction Grantaire had never expected to hear again. He smiled and swayed his shoulder to bump against Marius’. “It can’t be imagined he has an enemy in the world,” he said. “Is he always like this?”

“Except for when he’s fierce. Or gentle, I suppose. He’s ever so funny too.”

“This I know.” Courfeyrac had told several good stories on the way, most of them featuring himself as the good-natured fool blundering into trouble. “As bright as summer’s sun is my heart that you found him.”

“So is mine.” There was something anxious in Marius’ eyes, but before Grantaire could ask, Courfeyrac had returned. It was warm enough that they decided to do without a fire, and slept heavily inside Marius’ diamond of protection. He’d conjured the marks with the same speed and ease he always had, and Grantaire had watched with amazement, unable to believe he was seeing his cousin alive and casting again.

They began to hurry the next morning, despite Marius’ leg, and reached the southern edge of the camp before noon. “They’re in the middle, like your family is in your camp,” Grantaire told Courfeyrac, leading him through the maze of guylines and tents, grinning at those who caught his eye in recognition. “Not far now.”

“I cannot believe I am nervous!” Courfeyrac laughed, following him closely. “Is that strange? Nervous, to meet my brothers. It has barely sunk in, even now.”

“You’ll be fine,” Marius said firmly, to Grantaire’s surprise – he’d never been one for comforting others before. But there wasn’t time to think about it. They were getting closer and closer to the Brideau circle, and his own insides were twisting with irrational nerves. He recognised his and Combeferre’s tent as they approached and passed it, and suddenly there everyone was. 

Matelote and Gibelotte were talking together by the embers of the fire, Madame Boissy was lying down in her tent, only her feet visible. Feuilly looked up as they appeared, and Cosette stepped out of the Brideau tent. Combeferre, Joly, Bossuet, Louison, and Irma were all missing, but Enjolras was there, Enjolras was just behind Cosette.

“Enjolras!” Grantaire called, needlessly, because Enjolras had seen Courfeyrac and was running forward. Courfeyrac caught him in a hug, neither of them talking. Enjolras dragged himself back first, cupping Courfeyrac’s face with his hands and breathing heavily, eyes wide, whispering questions. Cosette was right behind him, hands clasped over her mouth before she shouted for Fantine, for Yvette.

Grantaire made himself look away, at Feuilly. “Where’s Combeferre?”

“The river,” Feuilly said, staring at Enjolras and Courfeyrac. “Who –?”

“Courfeyrac Lizot. This is my cousin Marius.” Grantaire turned to Marius and gripped his wrist. “I’ll be back, I have to get Combeferre.”

“Run,” Marius agreed cheerfully, and Grantaire needed no encouragement. He spared no glance for Enjolras and Courfeyrac as he left, thanking the Charter that he knew the layout of the camp so well, and knew exactly which route through the tents to take to get to the river the fastest.

He burst out of the tents and skidded to a stop, looking left and right wildly, trying to catch a glimpse of a familiar face. And there – Louison, with the woman she’d taken such a shine to. “Louison!” He barely stopped himself shouting. “Where’s Combeferre?”

“That way,” she said, pointing north with a mystified expression as Grantaire raced past. The crowd by the stream’s banks were thick and loud, and Grantaire resorted to shouting.

“Combeferre! Combeferre!”

“Grantaire?” A hand waved in the air, and Grantaire hurried over. Combeferre looked worried, his hands soapy from the laundry. “What’s wrong?”

“Courfeyrac!” Grantaire took his hand, ignoring the soap, and tugged him out of the crowd. “I found him at the camp to the south, I brought him back!”

“Our Courfeyrac?” Welcome urgency filled Combeferre’s eyes, and he started running after Grantaire without hesitation. “Where is he?”

“I left him with Enjolras, come on!”

“He was in that camp the whole time?”

“Him and Marius!” Grantaire couldn’t restrain a joyful laugh. “My cousin Marius, he’s alive! He didn’t drown in the Ratterlin!”

“Grantaire!” 

Grantaire found himself pulled to a stop and then into a hug. He allowed himself a moment to hug back, his throat suddenly tight with tears. “Come on,” he said, voice cracking as he pulled away and smiled up at Combeferre. “You can meet him too. Come on.”

“It’s such wonderful news,” Combeferre said, following Grantaire again when he started to jog back through the tents. “Grantaire…I’m so glad you are not alone, as you thought.”

And to think he’d imagined he was done with crying. Grantaire swallowed and managed to laugh. “So am I.” 

When they reached their circle, Grantaire staggered to a stop. Enjolras and Courfeyrac were on the ground, and Enjolras – Grantaire could hardly believe what he was seeing – Enjolras was shaking, clinging to Courfeyrac and sobbing like a child. He was so stunned he almost didn’t notice Combeferre rushing past him and crashing to his knees beside them, wrapping his arms around Courfeyrac, and pulling Enjolras into the embrace as well.

And Enjolras clung to him too; they were holding onto each other like they were in a storm that threatened to rip them apart. Everyone else, Grantaire noticed, had hurriedly busied themselves with other matters, either leaving the circle completely or hiding in their tents to give the trio some semblance of privacy. All except Cosette and Fantine, who had their arms wrapped around each other and were crying as well, and the other Brideau women, who were standing next to them as if waiting. 

Courfeyrac would know them too, Grantaire realised. Of course, Enjolras and Combeferre had spoken of him only in relation to themselves, but Courfeyrac would have been friends with both of their families as well.

“Aire!” Feuilly whispered, and Grantaire followed his beckoning with both relief and sadness, bringing Marius with him. They all slipped out of the circle, Feuilly holding a pot so they could pretend their only purpose was a visit to the river.

It was all happening so fast. But by the time they went back, Courfeyrac was being embraced by the rest of the Brideaus as though he was a long-lost son and Enjolras had stopped crying. 

They would have as much of a celebration as they could scrape together that night, Fantine declared, and as soon as he could, Grantaire took Marius and went to the woods, using the excuse that he needed to check his traps and see if they could catch anything for the evening.

A Traveller’s only certainties were change and the path. The path was always below the feet, and by finding Courfeyrac and Marius and bringing them back with him, Grantaire had changed everything.


	9. Enjolras

Enjolras couldn’t let go of Courfeyrac. Some paranoid, superstitious part of him whispered that if he did, Courfeyrac would disappear like smoke. So Enjolras kept a tight grip on him, on his hand, his wrist, shoulder, shirt, anything. 

It was as though Grantaire had brought Courfeyrac out of the earth itself, from a covered grave Enjolras had been pretending not to see for years. His deeply-buried terror that he would never see Courfeyrac again had been exhumed, and Courfeyrac was here. Courfeyrac was alive, and smiling, and talking and laughing and crying with him, and Enjolras had managed to stop his own tears only by great force of will. They would overflow again in a second if he let them, and it was difficult to hold on.

Courfeyrac was tolerating his desperate clinging, and he was talking to Cosette and Fantine, telling them what his family had been through since they’d parted in Bajin. Enjolras wasn’t listening. Combeferre was on Courfeyrac’s other side, his arm around Courfeyrac’s waist, and Enjolras felt like he was barely holding himself together.

Cracks that had appeared when he’d begun telling Grantaire about their lives, that had had a wedge driven into them and widened by that cursed song on the last night of the midsummer celebrations, that he’d pulled open himself by kissing Grantaire in the forest – they’d become gaping wounds, and Courfeyrac’s arrival had basically shattered him.

Everything felt like sandpaper on raw skin. He held on tighter to Courfeyrac’s wrist and tried to focus, tried to remember where they were, what they were doing. It was easier, for some reason, when Grantaire returned from the woods with his cousin. They were both grinning, easy with each other the way Enjolras should have been easy with Courfeyrac. They didn’t look very alike, Marius tall and thin with a nose too long to be considered handsome, and Grantaire sturdier, more graceful by comparison. But walking beside each other, Enjolras could see the shared blood. 

Grantaire was happier than Enjolras had ever seen him. It made sense. Wouldn’t Enjolras have been happier if Guillaume, if any of his family, had suddenly reappeared?

He should be happier with Courfeyrac being here. He _was_ happy. 

Happy was the wrong word. 

He was holding on too tight to Courfeyrac, and forced himself to loosen his grip, moving closer to compensate. He wasn’t happy. He wasn’t happy, and he couldn’t understand what was wrong with him, why his chest was too tight for him to breathe in properly, why he was pretending to be normal when his heart was choking him, when the ground was tilting below him. He was sitting, but he still felt as though he was on a ship, like he might fall sideways and roll away, fall off the edge of the earth. Into the sea, like Elise and his great-aunt Lucie.

He ignored the concerned looks from Cosette and his mother, ignored the way Valjean reassured them with an understanding Enjolras despised, and hated himself for despising.

Courfeyrac was here. Enjolras had been so sure, deep down and grief-stricken, that they would never find each other again. He’d been an optimist, before the war. He’d been a completely different person. 

Grantaire, he noticed, was a different person with Marius beside him. Louder, practically rambunctious, cheerful and full of life and love and laughter. Was this who Grantaire had been before his family had been killed? He’d always avoided the spotlight before, but now he was courting it, boastful and jocular. Did Enjolras really know him at all?

He shouldn’t be thinking about Grantaire anymore.

He was full of so many things he didn’t have room for happiness, perhaps that was it. He was still so guilty about so many things, and it was difficult to keep things buried when Courfeyrac was around. Courfeyrac had always known him so well, always knew what to say to draw him out of his shell. 

He was being careful now though. He wrapped an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders and pulled him against his side, and Enjolras leaned into him gratefully. Trust Courfeyrac to know that Enjolras needed more than a hand on his wrist to reassure himself that this was real. The only time Enjolras had to let go of him was when he went to the latrines. 

Courfeyrac, eternally patient, answered every question, even those put to him by those outside their circle. He rattled off the names of the other people he knew in his camp, their family names, even descriptions of people on their own for the benefit of those searching for their loved ones. And Enjolras stayed on his right side, Combeferre on his left, right through the afternoon. They bracketed him as they all ate that evening, and as the conversation finally, finally turned from Courfeyrac (whose voice was hoarse now from speaking so much), he turned to Enjolras and whispered in his ear, “You haven’t told Combeferre yet, have you?”

Enjolras shook his head, and realised at last what an idiot he was. Of course he couldn’t be properly happy that Courfeyrac had returned – Courfeyrac was the one who would hold him to the promise he’d made back in Bajin that he would tell Combeferre about what he’d done as they fled Kalarime. He’d promised Courfeyrac in Bajin that as soon as they were safe in Ancelstierre, he would tell Combeferre the truth, that he was a murderer.

“Don’t,” he whispered back, but it was too late. Courfeyrac had leaned forward to ask Fantine if he might borrow the Brideau tent for a few minutes to talk with Enjolras and Combeferre in private. She agreed – of course, why wouldn’t she? – and Enjolras felt his own panic as if from a great distance, like a trapped bird behind his ribcage.

He’d been brave, before the war. He’d been honest. 

He’d been the sort of person Combeferre deserved as a lover, that Courfeyrac deserved as a friend.

Combeferre frowned at them as they went into the Brideau tent, and Courfeyrac stepped away from both of them to let down the flaps and isolate them a little from everybody outside. Anything above a whisper would be clearly audible, something Courfeyrac clearly knew, because he breathed his words. “Enjolras, tell him.”

Enjolras shook his head, wrapping his arms around himself to try and stop any visible shaking. “I can’t,” he whispered through clenched teeth, nails digging into his elbows. He couldn’t look at Combeferre, he couldn’t. “I can’t.”

Courfeyrac didn’t look disappointed, the way Enjolras had been scared he would. He was immoveable though. “If you don’t, I will. You promised.”

He had. Enjolras nodded, giving his consent, and forced himself not to move further away from them as Combeferre touched Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “Tell me what?”

Courfeyrac looked up at him. He covered Combeferre’s hand with his own and pressed it, then looked at Enjolras and reached out with his other hand to squeeze his upper arm briefly. “We killed people.” He said it quietly, but bluntly enough that Enjolras could tell he’d told people before, since they’d left Bajin. And of course Cyprien and Calliste, Courfeyrac’s brother and sister, had already known. Enjolras had been the one bent on keeping it from Combeferre and his family.

Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to look at Combeferre’s face to see his reaction. His gaze ended up fixed somewhere around the level of his and Courfeyrac’s middles, focused on nothing at all.

“As we left Kalarime,” Courfeyrac was saying. “After the soldiers killed Guillaume and Patrice. We found another group of soldiers in the woods, four of them. And we lured them away from their camp and killed them.”

Even now, Courfeyrac was being too generous, trying to spare Enjolras. He spoke as if it had been a joint effort, when in reality, he had done the luring, and Enjolras the butchery. And even that didn’t convey how difficult it had been, how much physical strength it had taken. Enjolras had knifed the first man in the back, clapped a hand over his mouth and twisted with him, dragging him to the ground and stabbing him haphazardly over and over until he stopped moving. 

He’d stabbed the second and third men in their throats, and that had at least been faster. The fourth man had almost gotten Courfeyrac. They’d had to fight, all three of them together, desperately fighting for knife and gun, trying to kill each other as fast as possible. The soldier had slammed Courfeyrac’s head into the ground so hard he’d been stunned, and Enjolras had thought for an awful, awful moment that he’d been killed. He’d beaten that soldier until he stopped moving, and stuck his knife in his throat to be sure he was dead afterwards.

_“We lured them away from their camp and killed them.”_ The words didn’t convey the terrifying brutality of it at all. How shockingly hot blood was. How hard Enjolras had needed to push the knife to force it through the muscle of a man’s back, the cartilage of a throat.

“You didn’t tell me,” Combeferre whispered. “Why? You thought I would be angry?”

“We all agreed how monstrous killing was,” Courfeyrac murmured. “You most of all.”

“I didn’t need to be protected.”

“Yes you did!” Courfeyrac sounded quietly outraged. “You’d just lost your entire family! You were practically catatonic; we didn’t want to burden you with talk of more death.”

“You…” Combeferre made a near-silent sound of frustration, and sighed. Enjolras closed his eyes, and that must have caught Combeferre’s attention somehow, because he asked, “Enjolras?”

Courfeyrac’s hand brushed Enjolras’ arm again. “Enjolras –”

“I’m sorry.” Enjolras opened his eyes and made himself look at Combeferre, tears blurring his vision so he couldn’t see Combeferre’s expression properly. “I’m sorry. I promised Courfeyrac I was going to tell you when we were safe, and I…” He swallowed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Combeferre didn’t speak. Enjolras had barely gotten himself under control, at least to the point where he was reasonably sure he wasn’t about to start crying again, when Combeferre sighed. “I have…imagined…going home and hunting down the people who killed my family, and I have imagined killing them so many times now that I would be a hypocrite for condemning you.”

“It isn’t the same,” Courfeyrac whispered, and Enjolras looked up as Combeferre nodded and gripped Courfeyrac’s hand.

“I know. But if one of them, if Léonie Tailleur or Armand Chrétien was here in front of me now and I had a gun…” He shook his head, and then looked at Enjolras. “How can I judge you? You did what you could, what you had to, and I will never blame or condemn you for it. Enjolras…” 

Enjolras closed his eyes as Combeferre’s fingertips touched his shoulders, sliding forward until he was pulling Enjolras against him. It felt so familiar that Enjolras’ arms came up to hold him in return on pure instinct, a gesture he’d performed so many times it was written into his bones. And once he was holding onto Combeferre and allowing himself to be held, he couldn’t let go. He ducked his face against Combeferre’s shoulder and shuddered, his hands gripping Combeferre’s shirt in tight fists.

A breath later, one of Combeferre’s arms slid away, and the warm bulk of Courfeyrac pressed against both of them. He was sniffing, an arm sliding tight around Enjolras’ waist. “You forgive us then?”

“Everything that’s in my power to forgive is forgiven,” Combeferre mumbled, and Enjolras felt the sound of his voice against his neck. “I love you, both of you.” The sound of a kiss – Combeferre’s lips against Courfeyrac’s cheek – and then the sensation of one as he pressed one to Enjolras’ cheek as well. It should have been more of a shock, Enjolras was sure. It should have felt stranger after so long, but it didn’t.

“We love you too.” Courfeyrac laughed weakly. “Don’t we, Enjolras?”

Combeferre drew back, and only then did Enjolras realise his eyes were wet again. “I can’t stop now I’ve started,” he muttered, pulling back further and wiping at his face. “I’m sorry.”

“This is why you pushed me away.” Combeferre spoke softly, and Enjolras couldn’t look at him to confirm it, though it hadn’t been phrased as a question. “You were ashamed. You wanted to keep me separate from what happened.”

Enjolras gave something like a cross between a hiccup and a sob and tried to scowl at the same time. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t…” Combeferre took his hands, apparently not caring that they were damp, and waited until Enjolras steeled himself enough to meet his gaze. There wasn’t so much as a shred of condemnation or disappointment in them, and Enjolras clenched his stomach to stop himself from crying. “I love you,” Combeferre told him plainly. “I’ve always loved you, I always will. Do you still love me?”

Enjolras laughed, he couldn’t help it. There were still tears making trails down his cheeks, and it sounded more like a cracked sort of gasp than a real laugh, but Combeferre still smiled, and at their side Courfeyrac snorted as well.

“Ask the sun if it will shine tomorrow,” he whispered, still mindful of the thin tent walls. “As if Enjolras could not love you. Of all the silly questions.”

Combeferre laughed and pulled Enjolras into another hug, and this time both of them dragged Courfeyrac into it as well. “I missed you,” Enjolras said in a quiet rush. “So much, I couldn’t…you were right, you’re always right, I didn’t know what to do, I stopped…I tried to stop caring so much, and I didn’t want you to know, I didn’t want to touch you with hands that…”

Combeferre squeezed him. “I love your hands. They’re a part of you.”

“I’m not who I was.”

“Are any of us?” Courfeyrac asked in a low, serious voice. “We all had to survive awful things to get here. _The past is past and the future’s unknown,_ ” he quoted one of their favourite philosophers. _“The present is all we have._ And I love you for who you are now as well as who you were, and who you’ll become.”

“Well said.” Enjolras both heard and felt Combeferre pat Courfeyrac’s back, and had to laugh again, that odd gasping sound from before. It was as if he’d forgotten how, but he couldn’t help it – for a second, it had been as though they were all back at university, congratulating each other on a clever turn of phrase. 

They held each other like that for a long time, long enough for the pain in Enjolras’ chest to ease and for Combeferre’s thumb to begin stroking the back of his neck. Just rubbing up and down, and it seemed inconceivable that Enjolras had almost forgotten that habit of his, but feeling it again was like a miracle.

Combeferre knew and still loved him. Two facts that he had believed inherently opposed were actually perfectly compatible, according to Combeferre. And since Enjolras had never doubted Combeferre before in his life, he wasn’t about to start now.

Later that night, Enjolras lay facing Combeferre in his tent, eyes open in the dark. Courfeyrac had taken his own place in the Brideau tent, as welcome as a brother of blood. Enjolras had asked Louis and Corin seriously whether they wanted Enjolras to stay, but Corin, surprisingly, had told him they didn’t mind. It had been years since they’d seen Courfeyrac, but he’d won them to his side with his irrepressible charm. Grantaire and Marius were sleeping under the stars, something they both assured everyone cheerfully they had done many times before. And Enjolras was in Combeferre’s tent with Combeferre, their hands tangled together in the space between them, one of Combeferre’s feet wedged comfortably between Enjolras’ ankles.

“I missed you,” Combeferre was whispering, only a suggestion of his shape visible to Enjolras. “I almost hated you, I missed you so badly.”

“Only almost?”

“I can never stay angry at you.” Enjolras could hear the smile in Combeferre’s voice and lifted their joined hands to press his lips to the first bit of skin he could find that wasn’t his own. “I thought it was maybe my fault.”

“How could it possibly be your fault?” Enjolras asked, mystified.

“I drew back first. Did I speak to you at all before we found each other again in Bajin?” 

“You were grieving!”

“Shhh!” Combeferre laughed. “People are trying to sleep.”

Enjolras huffed and kissed Combeferre’s fingers again, just because he could. It still sent a shock through his belly – every new old thing they did was a painful delight, happening over and over again. “You were grieving,” he said again. “What sort of person would I be, to blame you for that?”

“It was one of the only things I could think of,” Combeferre confessed. “And I couldn’t ever figure out how to ask. I was too cowardly.”

“You’ve never been cowardly in your life,” Enjolras muttered. “I’m the one who sat on my promise to Courfeyrac for _years_ because I was too afraid to tell you the truth.”

“He always said we were useless without him,” Combeferre said, sounding happier than Enjolras could remember him being for a very long time. “He’ll lord this over us forever, you know.”

“I hope so.”

“Me too.” Combeferre pulled Enjolras’ hands towards him and kissed them. “I love you. I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” Enjolras whispered. “There’s still a part of me that doesn’t believe this is really happening.”

“It’s happening. You’re my heart.” Enjolras’ breath caught at the familiar term, grown so unused to hearing it. Combeferre made a quiet noise and said again, “My heart. My dear heart. Don’t leave me again.”

“I won’t. I wouldn’t’ve, except for how…” He swallowed, unsure of how to continue. “I didn’t think you would want me. And I didn’t want to have to ask, and put you in the position of refusing.”

Combeferre sighed, and let go of Enjolras’ hands with one of his so he could shuffle closer and wrap it over Enjolras’ side. “You’re always so harsh on yourself,” he murmured against Enjolras’ shoulder. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

Goosebumps raced down Enjolras’ back, and he gave a violent shiver that made Combeferre laugh softly and nudge him until he was facing away, so Combeferre could press the whole length of his body against Enjolras’ back. “Warmer?” he whispered into Enjolras’ hair, and Enjolras nodded, finding and gripping his hand again.

“I have to tell you something,” he breathed, and forced himself not to squeeze Combeferre’s hand so hard. “It’s not as bad as…it’s not that bad, but I need to tell you.”

“Mmm.” Combeferre hugged him and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of his neck. “I think…mm. Tell me tomorrow.”

He knew. It was with equal measures of delight and sorrow that Enjolras realised it, half of him thrilled that he could still read Combeferre’s voice and body so well, half of him terrified by what he’d said. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. It’s just us tonight, alright?” He squeezed Enjolras, and a completely different part of himself started to wake up to the way he was being held, his body remembering even if his mind was lagging behind. 

“Just us,” Enjolras agreed, finally closing his eyes and pressing back against Combeferre, who started to kiss his neck more slowly, mouth open and hot. Enjolras had forgotten how it could feel. They didn’t need to speak, and indeed found their mouths occupied elsewhere. Enjolras rolled onto his back, Combeferre lying over him, and they remembered together how easy it had always been between them.

Enjolras couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so needy, so quietly desperate, wanting to feel Combeferre all over him, as much of their skin in contact as physically possible. “I forgot,” he gasped into Combeferre’s shoulder. “How…”

“I didn’t.” Combeferre thrust against him, their bodies taut and beginning to sweat, blankets pushed aside with their clothes. “You shut yourself off too much, I know what you’re like.”

“You know what I’m like,” Enjolras agreed, trying not to groan. He lost the battle when Combeferre’s hand wound into his hair and pulled his head back so his mouth could press to Enjolras’ throat. “Fuck, _fuck_.”

Combeferre went even tenser against him, still for an amazing half second and then jerking against Enjolras as he came. Enjolras, mouth open, dug his nails into Combeferre’s back to hold him in place as he chased his own climax and followed him along a few seconds later.

Combeferre was laughing as quietly as possible as they both relaxed, and Enjolras couldn’t help smiling at the sound. “What?”

“We used to be so much better at not making a mess,” Combeferre whispered. “Look at us now.”

“We’ll get better again,” Enjolras promised, and leaned up to kiss him.

They ended up wiping away as much of the stickiness on their stomachs as they could with a sock and curled up again, even though they were both far too hot to be pressed against each other comfortably. Despite the discomfort and the sweat and the smell, Enjolras couldn’t stop smiling. The last of his nerves had settled with the confirmation that they could still dance the familiar old dance, that he hadn’t walled away and forgotten another important part of himself.

Waking up next to Combeferre was miraculous as falling asleep next to him had been, and Enjolras ignored his full bladder and shifted closer under the blanket Combeferre had pulled up over their shoulders in the night. The movement made Combeferre stir, the corners of his eyes sticky with sleep, and Enjolras tucked himself closer still, easing one leg over Combeferre’s. It made Combeferre smile, eyes still closed, and whisper, “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Enjolras didn’t even try to stop the smile that bloomed across his own face. He’d forgotten Combeferre’s way of waking up, slow and charming. He kissed Combeferre’s neck, because it was right below his lips and because he could. “Good morning.”

“It is.” Combeferre yawned and stretched as much as he could in the cramped tent. “Ahhh. Enjolras,” he smiled, a slow, easy murmur that was half muffled when he turned to tuck his face against Enjolras’ shoulder. “You stayed.”

“So did you.” Enjolras reached up to bury the fingers of his free hand in Combeferre’s hair. “No more leaving.”

Combeferre nodded and sighed, settling down again with a pleased sound. Enjolras kept ignoring his bladder and closed his eyes again, lips against Combeferre’s forehead. He felt almost like crying again, his heart overwhelmed with too many feelings to contain.

“Did you kiss Grantaire?” Combeferre asked softly, and Enjolras’ heart swelled a little more.

“Are you angry?”

“No.” Combeferre kissed his collarbone. “I love you. Did he kiss you?”

“We…” Enjolras moved his hand to Combeferre’s upper arm, holding onto him. “I kissed him first. He was…it was just before he went to Courfeyrac’s camp. I told him I was a killer.” Admitting it still sent an awful chill through his bones. “He said…he told me it didn’t make me a bad person.”

“He was right.”

Enjolras swallowed. “An opinion you share.” An opinion, not a fact, but he didn’t want to argue now. “I kissed him, and he…it was mutual. But then we came back, and I didn’t know what to do, and then he was gone. And you – I won’t again, it was nothing. I just needed, I missed –”

Combeferre pushed himself up quickly and kissed him, and despite their stale mouths and bad breath, Enjolras kissed back and let himself be calmed and gentled, the knot in his throat eased away. “I’m sorry,” he breathed when they parted, and Combeferre shook his head.

“Don’t be. One truth for another, I understand.” He gave Enjolras a small, apologetic smile. “I’ve been taken by Grantaire as well.”

Enjolras gripped his arm. “I thought you had! I wanted that for you, I wanted you to be happy. I wanted to make sure…” He could feel his face turning red. “I didn’t mean to kiss him. I thought he wanted you as well. I’m still sure he does.”

Combeferre propped himself up on his elbow, that little smile still in place. “I thought so too.” A moment of silence, and Enjolras knew Combeferre was thinking of Grantaire as well, the look and shape of him, the idea of what either of their futures might have taken with him instead of each other. “We always said just each other,” Combeferre said softly, and Enjolras’ throat went tight with fear and a horrible jealousy he hadn’t even realised he was capable of feeling until that second. It was worse than the shadow of it that he’d felt before, imagining Combeferre with Grantaire. That had been an exercise in self-pity, and a sort of masochism. This was Combeferre rejecting him less than a day after saying he’d forgiven him.

“Whatever you want,” he heard himself say, and something must have been obvious in his voice because Combeferre frowned and leaned over him again, crushing him down in a tight hug.

“Don’t,” he muttered against Enjolras’ neck. “Don’t do that. You’re my heart, remember? We’re not coming apart again, not ever.”

Enjolras clung to him, hardly realising he was doing it until Combeferre shifted on top of him and he realised he was shaking. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, everything in his head a whirlwind of shame and fear. 

“Don’t be.” Combeferre pushed himself up enough to look him in the eyes and cupped his face with one of his beautiful hands. “I love you as you are. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m always scared now,” Enjolras confessed.

“We’ll learn how to be safe again together.” Combeferre kissed his forehead, sealing the deal. It was that simple to him. It had been simple for both of them before the war.

Enjolras couldn’t keep his mouth shut though. “You want him.”

Combeferre snorted, and the sharp sound broke through Enjolras’ fear. He’d always found it impossible not to smile when Combeferre did. “So do you,” Combeferre reminded him dryly. “You’re the one who kissed him.”

“I didn’t mean –”

“It was an accident?” Combeferre teased. “You tripped?”

Enjolras pushed him, caught between laughing and crying, a childish part of him still convinced that Combeferre was about to leave him forever. He’d kept Combeferre at a distance for so long now that he’d forgotten what it was like to have the certainty of his love to anchor himself with. “Stop being an ass.”

“You started it.” Combeferre’s thumb caressed his cheek, a back and forth sweep of skin on skin, warm and dry. “I’m never leaving you. I’m only saying that we both like him, and he seems to like the both of us. We always said just us before, but we never saw this coming, did we?”

“This.” Enjolras wanted to catch up to Combeferre’s dry wit. “Do you mean me pushing you away, Grantaire being there, us being in a different world, or the entire war?”

“Ha ha, Monsieur Know-All.” Combeferre rolled his eyes, smiling. “All of it, everything. But particularly Grantaire, right now.”

They had always said just them, never imagining that either of them could ever want anyone else. It didn’t make them unusual – some people preferred to be with only one person at a time, some people to more. Enjolras turned his face into Combeferre’s palm and closed his eyes, savouring the sensation of being touched. “Can it be just us for a while?” he asked quietly.

“Of course.” Combeferre hugged him again, the bulk of him gloriously heavy on top of Enjolras’ body. “Dear heart,” he breathed against Enjolras’ neck, and Enjolras held him close.

By the time they emerged from the tent, the others were already shaving by the fire, and Courfeyrac was with them. He grinned when they came out and asked a loud question about how close the stream was, pointedly directing attention to himself and away from them.

Grantaire and Marius were nowhere to be seen, but there wasn’t time to look for them – both Enjolras and Combeferre had to hurry to the latrines by that point.

When they got back, Courfeyrac told them that Grantaire and Marius had already gone to the woods. There wasn’t really time to miss them – the Brideaus monopolised Courfeyrac again, and this time Enjolras didn’t feel like he was on the verge of walking backwards and so could actually enjoy the conversation.

It was strange, the way he couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed listening to his family talk. He sat between Combeferre and Courfeyrac again, Combeferre’s thigh pressed to his, and looked at his mother as if seeing her properly for the first time since they’d fled Kalarime. She smiled as she talked to Courfeyrac about his own family, about everything that had happened to them since they’d parted in Bajin. He wondered what she’d looked like when she’d been his age. It couldn’t be so different – she’d had him young, and Cosette only a year later. She was only forty-five.

Cosette saw him looking and gave him an inscrutable look that for some reason made him look down, as though he had something to be ashamed of. He didn’t speak. Every time he thought idly of something to add, he discarded it without opening his mouth. There was nothing worthwhile he could offer, and he didn’t want to interrupt anyone else’s voice with his own. Combeferre took his hand at some point, and Enjolras smiled at him.

They expanded their circle as they ate their meagre midday rations, the lack of Grantaire’s usual additions making itself known. Musichetta sat with Joly and Bossuet instead, and Louis and Corin came to sit with Enjolras as they usually did, and all the while Combeferre stayed at his side. Enjolras listened to Courfeyrac and Cosette reminisce about Kalarime, and realised that it didn’t hurt quite so much to think of it now. 

He went with Cosette to get more water, and didn’t protest at all when she said, not kindly, “I can’t believe how much of a difference he’s made in just one day.” When Enjolras didn’t respond, she gave him a sideways look. “Courfeyrac, I mean.”

“It isn’t just him.”

“No, it’s Combeferre too.” 

Enjolras glanced at her, taking in her tight shoulders and pinched lips. “You’re angry with me.”

“Yes.” The look she gave him almost made him step away from her, though it softened immediately. “No. And yes. I’m…maybe I’m disappointed.”

“Disappointed,” Enjolras echoed, frowning.

“And hopeful. You’ve hardly been here, but now you’re smiling again. I’m happy for you. I just wish it had happened sooner.”

“It was my fault.”

“Why?” Cosette frowned at him, looking genuinely upset. “What happened? What happened that could be fixed overnight that we couldn’t have helped you with? We’ve been here the whole time! Couldn’t we have helped?”

Enjolras looked down at the pot and kettle he was carrying and forced himself to loosen his grip. He hadn’t even noticed how hard he was holding on. “You weren’t there,” he made himself say. “In the mountains. Only Courfeyrac was.”

“What happened?”

She’d asked him before, several times. Mostly in Bajin. She hadn’t asked for a long time – he’d assumed she’d given up, which was foolish, he realised now. Cosette never gave up. When he didn’t answer, she glared at the path ahead of them.

“I hate it when you do this.”

“I –” Enjolras choked, and forced himself to continue. “I don’t know how to stop.”

“Just talk!” She waved a hand, briefly letting go of the huge pot she was carrying. “Isn’t that what Courfeyrac made you do yesterday? You talked to Combeferre and now look! You’re together again!”

“I didn’t.” Enjolras swallowed, blinking. Loosened his grip _again_ , and stepped over a guideline. “Courfeyrac told him for me. I couldn’t.”

Cosette was staring at him, he could feel it. Could practically feel her confusion in the air between them as well. “Why?”

“I can’t. I don’t know.” Except he could, he realised even as he spoke. He had. In the forest, with Grantaire, he’d spoken to him. He hadn’t managed to speak to anyone else like that since the war had started. The longing for the quiet of the woods, for Grantaire’s presence at his side, was like a fierce ache in his chest. The camp was always too loud – even now, his skin was prickling with embarrassment, knowing that anyone nearby could be listening in on his and Cosette’s conversation.

Cosette shook her head. “Is this just you still trying to protect me? I don’t need it.”

Then what was he good for? Enjolras didn’t say it, and didn’t say any of the other things he was thinking either – he didn’t know how to go back to being normal, and he didn’t know how to make his body realise he didn’t need to be constantly alert all the time. He didn’t know how to stop. He said none of it, barely able to articulate it even to himself, and not sure how Cosette would react if he did.

“You don’t have to protect any of us,” Cosette went on, when the silence dragged out between them. “We’re safe here. The war’s behind us. You don’t have to do everything on your own.”

“Guillaume would,” Enjolras said, and blinked at the sound of his own voice.

“No he wouldn’t!” Cosette sounded incredulous. “That’s –”

“You’re right.” Enjolras couldn’t feel his fingers. “Luc and Paul would have helped.” But they’d been killed in Montleire. “Or Jean, or Cyril.” But Jean had died in Bajin, and Cyril had died in their second Ancelstierren camp.

“Do you think Maman and I haven’t been protecting us as well?” Cosette demanded in a hiss after a moment of outraged silence. “Is that what this is about? You think Yvette couldn’t fight back if she needed to? And what about Chetta? She fights as well as you can, if not better!”

Enjolras’ throat had closed up again. Even if he’d been able to think of a response, he couldn’t have given it. Cosette’s anger was like fire at his side, and she didn’t say anything more when it became clear that Enjolras wasn’t going to respond. 

At the river, Enjolras led them upstream, above where people did their laundry. It was quieter there, and away from the oppressive surroundings of people and tents, Enjolras finally found his tongue.

“I’m sorry.”

Cosette frowned, and when he knelt by the edge of the stream, she crouched down and took the pot from his hands. “What for?” Fantine had made them apologise like that when they were children, sulky and reluctant to apologise. _Be specific_ , she would say, firm and calm. Cosette was so much like her.

Enjolras looked at the water and pretended that they were alone, that the empty bank on the other side of the stream was reflected behind them as well. “I know you can protect yourselves. Guillaume…you shouldn’t have to, that’s all. We’re, we were supposed to be…” Men were more expendable, that’s what Guillaume had always said. That was why men fought and protected. Women carried life, and that was more important. 

“He was my uncle too,” Cosette said in a cold, hurt voice when he didn’t go on. “And he was Maman’s brother. He wasn’t just yours.”

But Enjolras had been his favourite. And Enjolras had loved him the most. “I should have saved him.” It came out in a breathless mumble, and the admission made his cheeks burn. “I should’ve done more, I just _waited_ , I should’ve distracted them or done something, something to…I could’ve dragged him and Patrice –”

“They had broken legs,” Cosette interrupted, grabbing his wrist. “They never would have made it, Enjolras. _Enjolras_.” She squeezed tightly, the pain of it jerking his gaze away from the water. “You saved Courfeyrac, and yourself. Sometimes that’s all you can do.”

She’d been gentle, once. She’d cried when he’d told her what had happened in the mountains, but by the time they’d found each other in Bajin she’d already seen as much death as he had. And Bajin had made her wily and smart, while it had numbed Enjolras and turned him bestial. She’d found a first uncle in Valjean, who loved her as though she was his true blood niece, but Enjolras had lost Guillaume and that hole in his heart could never be filled by another.

Cosette eased her grip on his wrist, but didn’t let go. “It’s going to be alright,” she said quietly. “We’re going to be safe here.”

In his head, Enjolras saw their house, the carpets on the floors, the trees at the end of the road, the hearth, the stone wall and the white gate. Guillaume smoking his pipe in the kitchen, laughing when Marguerite and Lucie clucked at him. Cyril’s old fingers on the strings of his épinette des vosges. Everything they’d lost. Everything they could never go back to, that they would never see again. “I want to go home,” he said, barely audible over the sound of the stream.

Cosette moved, settling down onto her knees and sitting at his side properly. For a moment, their shoulders brushed. She didn’t let go of his wrist, and she didn’t speak for what felt like a long time. Long enough that Enjolras began to feel almost content with her presence beside him. Silence was so often preferable to talking for him, these days. 

“I know,” Cosette said at last. She took a deep breath and sighed, then squeezed Enjolras’ wrist and let go of him, handing him back his pot. “Come on.”

They didn’t speak as they walked back, and Enjolras felt lighter for it. Whatever Cosette had heard in his garbled words had been enough for now, it seemed. And when they got back to their circle, Combeferre and Courfeyrac smiled up at both of them, and Enjolras managed to smile back. Louis made space for him to sit down, and Corin moved to sit between Enjolras’ spread legs, leaning back against his chest. It was the closest he’d allowed Enjolras to get in front of other people since they’d crossed the Wall, and for that Enjolras didn’t mind the way he had to prop himself up on his arms in a way that made his shoulders ache. 

Grantaire and Marius didn’t return until dusk, but they brought three rabbits and armfuls of wild garlic, and both of them were so plainly happy with each other’s company that they seemed to be glowing. After a quick discussion with Fantine, Musichetta and Gallia were dispatched to deliver most of the garlic and two of the rabbits to several other families, and Grantaire and Marius stayed to answer more of the endless questions about the Old Kingdom. They spoke of their family being killed by the Dead as well, and Enjolras realised from Combeferre’s lack of shock that Grantaire had already told him too.

Enjolras slept in his family tent that night, while Courfeyrac slept in Combeferre’s tent. He was sure Fantine wouldn’t have minded if he’d invited them both to sleep in their tent, but there wasn’t enough room for two extra bodies. Corin slept curled against him, Louis on his other side, and Enjolras slept well, only waking a couple of times.

Marius and Grantaire disappeared early again, and Enjolras gravitated towards Combeferre and Courfeyrac, both of them wearing disappointed looks that he was sure was mirrored on his own face. Courfeyrac laughed, of course, when he saw. “A sore sight, we are! They’ll come back earlier; Marius told me last night.”

Enjolras glanced at Combeferre. “I hoped we might go with them.”

“Missing the quiet?” Combeferre smiled and took his hand, and Enjolras marvelled at the rush of his own relief, so glad Combeferre could still read him so easily.

“Yes.”

“Maybe we can all go tomorrow,” Combeferre said, and Courfeyrac nodded. 

“I’d like that. Never mind. There’s still plenty of time before I have to be back.”

“How long did your mother give you?” Combeferre grinned, and Enjolras couldn’t help laughing at the aggrieved look on Courfeyrac’s face. 

“Two weeks, or she’ll come up here herself and fetch me. I had to fight for more than three days, but you know what she’s like.”

The day passed much like the one before, mainly inactive with a lot of talking. Even Enjolras managed to open his mouth a few times, and it was a revelation when Combeferre touched the back of his head and mentioned that he’d liked the way Enjolras’ hair had looked long, that it reminded him of university. Enjolras blushed like a boy, and everyone laughed, but not cruelly. 

“It is right to find happiness in dark times,” Madame Boissy told him in an undertone as he passed her later. “Blessings on you both.”

When they returned, Grantaire and Marius had made a decision. “We’re going to find a Charter Priest,” Grantaire said, looking at Combeferre in particular. “We asked the guards already, and they’ve nothing against it. They reckon it’s a good idea, even.”

“To baptise us?” Combeferre guessed, and Grantaire nodded.

“We won’t be long,” Marius told Courfeyrac, who looked slightly stricken. “We’re only going to Ganel. It’s west of here, practically a straight line. It won’t take us much more than a week to get there and back. And if you’re baptised, you’ll be able to protect yourselves,” he added softly. “You won’t be so helpless.”

That alone was reason enough for them to go, as far as Enjolras was concerned. At the same time, of course, he hated the thought of Grantaire leaving again. And it seemed, now he was looking, that Grantaire was avoiding him and Combeferre as well. Wishing to give them space, perhaps, or maybe guilty about kissing Enjolras in the woods.

Combeferre agreed, when Enjolras shared his suspicions in private, or as private as Combeferre’s tent could be. “He wouldn’t want to get in the way.”

“Would he stay away?”

“He might.” Combeferre frowned, and Enjolras waited, recognising the expression of Combeferre turning things over in his mind, looking for a solution. “And he wouldn’t stay forever anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

Combeferre’s frown turned to an expression of concern. “You know he won’t be staying with us past the point of us settling properly? He’s only stayed this long because he was on his own, and had nowhere better to be.”

“And he likes you,” Enjolras added, a little dry. “Don’t forget that. And the rest of us too, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” Combeferre teased, leaning in to brush their noses together. “This kiss in the woods was just platonic, was it?”

Enjolras snorted and let Combeferre kiss him, easing his worries. “He won’t stay forever,” he agreed softly as they parted. “But the way he talks of it, Travellers can move as they wish. Why shouldn’t he pass through wherever our village will be? He says his family had regular routes they used – this Westway we’ll be near could be one of them. There’s no reason him not staying has to be a problem.”

“You’d not mind?” Combeferre asked, tilting his head.

“Would you?” Enjolras countered, then sighed. “He’d be miserable. I’d rather have him happy a few times a year than sad all year round.”

From Combeferre’s slowly growing smile, Enjolras could tell he felt the same. “You should talk to him,” he said. “You always say things best.”

Enjolras nodded. “To tell him we both…?”

“Maybe. At least that he isn’t unwelcome.”

Trepidation shivered through Enjolras’ stomach. “Are you sure? Is it too fast?”

Combeferre took his hand in both of his, lining up their fingers and tilting his head to one side. “I don’t want to miss the chance,” he said at last in a low voice. “We’ve been so lucky to get this far. Time isn’t limitless. If we wait too long, he might leave properly, and we should at least tell him how we feel before that.”

Enjolras struggled to find a space to take Grantaire aside that evening, and had to resort to staying up later than he would have liked and following Grantaire as he made his last trip to the latrine. He made sure they were a decent distance away from their circle before touching Grantaire’s arm to get his attention.

“Oh!” Grantaire lurched back, then looked down. Enjolras couldn’t see much in the dark, but he would have bet on Grantaire’s cheeks turning pink. “Are you well?”

“Of course.” Enjolras frowned, hearing the movements of people all around them and stepping closer, trying to ignore it. “I have not yet said thank you.” It was strange, carefully speaking Kingdom after having spoken so much Chellanian over the last few days.

“Thank you?” Grantaire’s head jerked up, wide eyes shining. “For what?”

“For finding Courfeyrac, and for bringing him here. You’ve changed everything.” With so many ears nearby, Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to be more honest than that. “And I wanted to tell you…”

“Yes?” Grantaire prompted hesitantly, when Enjolras trailed off.

“In the woods,” Enjolras lowered his voice as much as he could, so Grantaire had to step closer to hear him. “Before you left –”

“It won’t happen again,” Grantaire hastened to assure him. “I mean, you’ve, you have Combeferre, and I –”

“He likes you as well.” Enjolras frowned, refusing to allow Grantaire to misunderstand, whether on purpose or not. “We both do. I wanted to tell you he knows, and he does not mind. Neither of us do. I know this is not how you do things with your own people, but…it can be how things are here. We – both of us, we are…” He paused, thinking the words through in Chellanian and then trying to translate them. “We are well as two, but three would…three is a good number,” he finished, somewhat uncertainly. Grantaire said nothing, and Enjolras swallowed and forced himself to speak again. “I did not want you going if you thought you had done something wrong.” It was easier in Kingdom, for some reason. He’d never made that connection before, but knowing that fewer people around them would be able to fully understand what they were saying helped. Even if it was only the illusion of privacy, it helped.

“I thought you’d,” Grantaire started, then shook his head. “I don’t know what I thought. That you’d try to forget about me, I suppose.”

“Never.” Enjolras swayed forward, barely stopping himself from reaching for Grantaire’s hand. Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s easy touches had pulled those instincts back to the surface, it seemed. “I want – we want you to come back. Don’t just go.”

“I won’t,” Grantaire whispered. “I’ll be back.”

“Good.” Enjolras took a breath and made himself step back. “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

Combeferre was sitting by the embers of the fire when he got back, and Enjolras felt something in him melt when Combeferre stood up and hugged him without saying a word. Enjolras pressed his face into Combeferre’s shoulder and held on tight, relaxing into Combeferre’s warmth, and the weight of his arms around him. “I told him,” he whispered.

“What did he say?”

“You were right, he thought he’d done something wrong. He said he would come back though. I think he needs some time to think about it.”

“That’s good.” Combeferre kissed his neck. “You should go to bed.”

“So should you.” Enjolras pulled back and smiled at him, and they shared a too-brief kiss before reluctantly parting. Enjolras didn’t want Louis and Corin ever to think that he was abandoning them, so he was sleeping in the Brideau tent with them again. He didn’t realise until he was under the blankets that Marius and Courfeyrac had been missing when he got back.

They left early, but at least this time they said goodbye. Combeferre held tight to Enjolras’ hand as they watched Grantaire and Marius weave an easy path away from their circle, out of the camp. “I wish we could leave,” Gallia muttered.

“Not long now,” Yvette told her, rubbing her scarred eye. “That nice younger guard told me we’ll be moving on soon enough. They’ve delivered things to where we’ll be living. They’ll divide us up into villages, he thinks.”

Enjolras wondered what they would call these new villages. Would they name them after their old homes, or try to make something new? Or take the names the Kingdom people gave them?

Grantaire had told him they would need to decide what to keep and what to change. Enjolras wondered how the Travellers had managed to come to any kind of consensus on that. He couldn’t imagine Southerlings doing the same. Kalarimians would want to do things different to Korrovians, who would keep themselves separate again from the Iznenians and Iskerians. And within that, old regional differences would surface. Joly and Bossuet’s village had baked a different kind of bread to Montleire, and everywhere schooled their children differently. How on earth were they going to move forward without falling apart? The only thing that had really united them until now was the shared momentum.

It was difficult to imagine a future that didn’t shift under his feet like loose sand.

Montparnasse came to their circle that afternoon, apparently more comfortable with no outsiders. It did mean that he wouldn’t be pestered to speak in anything but Chellanian, and he and Madame Boissy agreed that speaking one’s own language was far preferable. He’d come to ask Courfeyrac a few questions, it transpired, and Enjolras listened curiously as Courfeyrac told him how many people there were in his camp, how many families, how many people on their own. At his side, Combeferre barely hid his irritation, but Enjolras kept a hand on his leg and he didn’t say anything.

“Are there any differences between our camp and yours?” Montparnasse asked, his stillness a direct contrast to Courfeyrac’s lazy fidgeting, his familiar inability to stay still for even a second. 

“Not really. I think yours is a little bigger, but that’s it.” Courfeyrac shrugged. “I don’t really know what you’re looking for.”

“Are you treated well?”

“Of course.”

“The guards are fair?”

“They are here as well, aren’t they?” Courfeyrac frowned. “What’re you getting at?”

“Curious, that’s all.” Montparnasse shrugged, as though it really was a small matter. “They don’t keep you guarded either then? No fences or curfews?”

“Only that we shouldn’t wander off, and we shouldn’t go out after dark.”

“Have you seen them use their magic?”

“Not as much as I’ve seen Marius use it.” Courfeyrac smiled suddenly. “He’s gone to get a priest, so we can be baptised and use it too.”

Montparnasse didn’t frown, but Enjolras caught the flicker of distrust that passed over his face. “It’s useful,” he said, drawing Montparnasse’s attention to him. “It isn’t corruptive. I’ve watched Grantaire use it, many times. It draws on his own energy, nothing external. It doesn’t appear to be divine.”

“It comes from nowhere.” Montparnasse shook his head. “I’ve seen it too. It isn’t _possible_.”

“And yet,” Feuilly said dryly, “it exists. You’ll have to wrap your head around it sometime.”

Montparnasse shot him a poisonous look. “Everything has a price.”

“The price is his energy,” Enjolras told him. “It’s the same as physical exertion. He can’t cast his spells if he’s too tired or hungry, just like he wouldn’t be able to run a race or climb a hill in the same condition.”

Montparnasse looked back at Courfeyrac. “What’s the most powerful thing you’ve seen any of them do with magic?”

Courfeyrac stretched, thinking about it. “Depends what you mean by powerful, I suppose. Marius spends a couple of days a week heating bath water for people, and he’s always exhausted afterwards.”

There was a murmur of surprise and longing from everyone else listening. “I wish we’d thought to ask Grantaire if he could do that,” Louison muttered. “I’d do anything for a hot bath.”

“We saw Grantaire kill a zombie,” Joly reminded Montparnasse, who waved a hand.

“I remember. He’s said he’s not very powerful though. I suppose his cousin is the same. The guards practice with it from time to time, and they have more spells for attack and defence.” 

“You watch them?” Joly frowned, and Montparnasse gave him a brief, withering look, getting to his feet.

“You would too, if you had any sense.” He stalked away, and Enjolras scrambled up to follow him, ignoring the irritated muttering that sprang up behind him as he hurried after Montparnasse.

“Montparnasse!”

“Back with your precious lover?” Montparnasse sneered at him as he caught up. “I’m surprised you could peel yourself out of your tent to string a sentence together.”

“I trust Grantaire.”

“You trust too easily.”

Enjolras had to fall in behind him, the spaces between the tents too narrow for them to walk beside each other. Montparnasse didn’t tell him to go away though, so Enjolras kept following him, waiting for the path to widen again.

It didn’t, but Montparnasse led him back to his own circle. Far smaller than Enjolras’, but just as neat. No large tents, just little ones. Montparnasse’s companions were all like him – men, women, and pemmes on their own, with no family and few friends. Enjolras recognised most from the camp in Ancelstierre, but there were new faces as well. Montparnasse hadn’t been idle.

“You have something to say?” Montparnasse asked flatly, sitting outside his tent and accepting a cup of water that a young woman handed him with a nod.

Enjolras sat next to him and took another look around. The little group had four children with them, one only a baby, the others all younger than ten. The oldest was a man who looked a little older than Javert, though thinner and meaner. Most were young, like Montparnasse himself. And everyone was doing something. Not just playing jacks with stones and chatting either – two pemmes were taking turns doing each other’s hair, a middle-aged man was sharpening the cooking knives, two younger men were reciting something to each other. Matré-Belen’s Ode to the Vine, Enjolras realised a second later, startled.

“I haven’t heard that since I was a child,” he said without thinking.

“It needs to be written down, but we’ve got no paper yet. Paquet had the Book of Odes before we came here. Carried it all the way from _Lullin_ , all the way to Ancelstierre. Then we crossed the Wall.” He sounded bitter. “We helped him memorise it, and we need to keep it fresh or else we’ll forget. Who knows if anyone else managed to keep their Book of Odes in their head across the Wall?”

Enjolras looked at him for a long moment. “You’re stretching yourself too thin.”

“I’m not.”

“You can’t protect everyone.”

“Who says I’m trying to?”

“Watching the guards doesn’t give the impression that you’re only looking out for your circle,” Enjolras pointed out, and Montparnasse bared his teeth.

“No, that’s you, isn’t it? Your blood before anything else.”

It stung, but Enjolras had resigned himself long before they’d reached this point that his power to protect was severely limited. “Not just my blood.”

“Mostly your blood.” Montparnasse spat on the ground. “That’s what blood is. It’s just water.”

Enjolras looked around at the circle again. Strangely, he’d never been able to get angry at Montparnasse. It would have been like getting angry at an animal for snarling at an outstretched hand – it was just Montparnasse’s way. “I trust Grantaire,” he said, since he was pretty sure that was what this was really about. “He says the Charter can help us protect ourselves. The rules are different here. We need to adapt.”

“We need to take care of our own, and we need to remember where we come from.” 

“You can’t remember for everyone either,” Enjolras said quietly, and Montparnasse looked at him like he wanted to stab him.

“I don’t need you telling me what I can and can’t do,” he hissed. “You’re not thinking long-term, as usual. What’s going to happen after we’re set up in these little villages? Will people trade with us? Will they want us to stay separate? Will we be allowed to invade their own villages and towns? What are we going to be allowed to do?”

“Do?” Enjolras repeated, blinking.

“How will we make money?” Montparnasse snapped. “Are we supposed to all be farmers? I can’t farm! Will we be allowed to cut down trees to build things? Who owns the land? What are the trade routes? Who are the people who are leading us? We’ve been told that the Southerling leaders have met with the prince of this kingdom several times. The Kalarimian representatives are called Vaillant and Goussand. Do you know those names? I don’t. They’re well-regarded families, I hear, but they say they represent me and I have no idea who they are. You’re tired,” he said, quieter, his anger tempering to something harder, like fire into steel. “Everyone’s tired. Everyone wants to follow, no one wants to lead or think. Everyone’s so focused on escaping the war, they’re not thinking about the lives we’ll need to build here.”

“That’s not true.” Enjolras found his breath, which Montparnasse had knocked out of him with his barrage of questions. “My mother’s thinking of it. She’s been making connections, starting to get a council together. You’re not the only one thinking ahead.”

“A council can’t do everything.” Montparnasse scowled. “Administrators got us into this mess in the first place. Will we have a police force? What laws are we going to follow here?”

“Are you going to go straight?” Enjolras raised an eyebrow, and just like that the tension broke. Montparnasse snorted and took a sip of his water. 

“I’m not suited to it. Your pet policeman wouldn’t approve of my methods. You know their magic could kill us easier than guns?”

“All the more reason for us to learn to use it ourselves.”

Montparnasse shook his head. “I don’t trust them.”

“You don’t trust easily enough.” 

They exchanged something that might almost have been a smirk.

“Get out.” Montparnasse jerked his head at the path they’d entered on. “Go placate your friends, I know they don’t like me.”

“You don’t make yourself likeable.” Enjolras pushed himself to his feet, and Montparnasse snorted.

“Not to them.”

Montparnasse made himself plenty likeable to those he wanted on his side, Enjolras knew, and he cast a last look around at the circle he’d built up before leaving. Perhaps twenty people that Montparnasse had won to his side. Whether they were all as paranoid and angry as him, Enjolras didn’t know, but he knew he would have been with them if he’d been on his own. He and Montparnasse were very alike in a lot of ways.

“Combeferre says you were friends with him in Ancelstierre?” Courfeyrac said when he returned, leaning back on his elbows and giving Enjolras a frankly curious look. “Is that true?” He’d been talking to Valjean, who gave Enjolras a nod of greeting.

“Sort of.” Enjolras sat in front of him, and smiled when Combeferre came over to join them.

“Montparnasse is an angry young pemme,” Valjean said, without judgement. “I daresay they never imagined that they would ever need to flee Touleon, even in a war.”

“Why did they?” Courfeyrac asked, looking between Valjean and Enjolras.

“He was usurped by another member of his gang,” Enjolras said. “He would’ve been killed if he’d stayed.”

“So he left the country?”

Enjolras crossed his legs and folded his hands together. “I think he wasn’t alone, to start with. He ended up on a blacklist though, so he had to get out of Kalarime, and then he ended up in Arraim. He was going to try and stay in Korrovia, but they started killing pemmes.” The others nodded. Arraim was a coastal camp similar to Bajin, but closer to the border. It had been bombed by every party involved in the war, and the inhabitants treated abominably. Getting out of Arraim and into Korrovia without papers as a pemme would have been ten times harder than securing passage across the Sunder Sea.

“She’s violent,” Combeferre said in a dark voice. “She’s vicious. I don’t like her at all.”

“But you do?” Courfeyrac looked at Enjolras, raising his eyebrows. “That’s rare.”

“There but for the grace of Bel go I,” Enjolras said quietly.

“Likewise, if I were a younger man,” Valjean added a moment later. “Montparnasse is charismatic and clever, and they take care of their own.”

“And fuck everyone else,” Combeferre muttered.

Enjolras pressed his hands together, discomfort prickling down his spine. Valjean hummed thoughtfully. “When your world collapses around you, it is natural to try to care about it less. People do not hate from birth – they learn to do it, and they are taught by the society they live in. Cutting away those parts of yourself that incline towards trust and compassion and love is a way of protecting yourself from further hurt.” Enjolras felt himself flush, feeling the truth of it down to his bones. “It is difficult to learn that living like that is a death sentence all of its own.”

“Montparnasse has friends though,” Courfeyrac ventured. “Doesn’t he?”

“Allies,” Combeferre snorted, but Enjolras shook his head.

“He protects them, and teaches them to protect themselves. He just doesn’t want to waste his efforts on people who don’t need them.” He’d invited Combeferre to join him in Ancelstierre, Enjolras knew, and Combeferre had rejected him rudely, probably offended that a violent criminal saw a potential ally in him. “He cares about what happens to us, all of us.”

“She has a funny way of showing it,” Combeferre said.

“He helped us, after Thénardier.” Enjolras still had to force down a surge of anger when he thought about that man. “He warned us, and we didn’t listen, and he still helped us afterwards. And when he called us idiots, he wasn’t wrong.” He frowned, trying to think of how to explain it. “I don’t think he expected to be lumped in with everyone else in a place like Arraim. To a bomber or a Korrovian peacekeeper, we’re all the same, and if he picked on his own people, he’d be even worse than our enemies. But he still sees how easy it is to take advantage of people, and hates those who refuse to change to make it harder for people like him.”

“How frustrating for him,” Courfeyrac said wryly, but he was smiling. “I think I understand, at any rate.”

Enjolras still wasn’t sure that he’d explained it properly, but he let it go. He was out of practice when it came to explaining his thoughts, that much was clear.

That evening, after they’d eaten and people had started peeling off to go to bed, Combeferre sighed, wedged between Enjolras and Courfeyrac. “I wish we’d been able to go with them.” They didn’t have to ask who he meant.

“Marius needs to talk to Grantaire.” Courfeyrac wasn’t looking at either of them, staring in the direction of the treeline, though it was almost invisible at this time of night. “Away from everyone else.”

“What about?” Combeferre asked, raising his eyebrows. When Courfeyrac turned back to them, Enjolras knew just from the look on his face.

“You and Marius?” 

“Shh.” Courfeyrac sighed and inclined in his head in the direction of the fire, where Matelote and Gibelotte were talking about something with Feuilly and Louison. After a moment, he went on in a low voice. “You know how Travellers only allow men and women to be lovers?” Courfeyrac started, shuffling close and bending his head close to theirs.

“Grantaire’s said,” Combeferre nodded.

“Marius is afraid he won’t approve.”

“Oh Bel.” Combeferre covered his face with one hand, and Enjolras swore under his breath.

“He’ll be fine,” he told Courfeyrac, who looked alarmed. “I wish we’d known, and you’d known –”

“Known…” Courfeyrac moved to look at both of them properly, jaw dropping in almost theatrical outrage. “You? And Grantaire? Both of you?”

“I don’t think Marius has anything to worry about,” Combeferre sighed.

“Shit.” Courfeyrac groaned quietly. “He’s been terrified of it since Grantaire turned up. He thinks he’s found Grantaire to lose him again, he almost didn’t want to tell him at all.”

“I bet Grantaire’s scared of the exact same thing.” Enjolras shook his head. “I told him before he left that we were both interested in him.”

“Oh.” Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows. “So you’re not even together?”

“Enjolras kissed him,” Combeferre said, keeping his voice almost inaudibly quiet. “But that’s all. How long have you been with Marius?”

“Months.” Courfeyrac smiled, real happiness lighting up his face. “Almost five months now, properly, but a bit before that too. It’s so difficult for Travellers, I didn’t understand for ages. If anyone finds out, he’ll be exiled forever.” His expression clouded over. “It’s cruel, I don’t understand them. He was starting to say how he was thinking about it more and more, I think he was thinking of staying with us, with me. My family loves him, Maman would adopt him if she thought he’d agree. But then Grantaire appeared.”

Enjolras bristled instinctively at the insinuation that Grantaire’s presence could ever be bad, and both Combeferre and Courfeyrac gave him amused looks. “I’m not saying it wasn’t a blessing,” Courfeyrac assured him. “If he hadn’t come, I wouldn’t have found you so soon. It’s just complicated things for Marius.”

“Even if Marius doesn’t tell him while they’re gone, we can put his fears to rest when they get back,” Combeferre said. “They’ll be fine, either way.”


	10. Grantaire

It had been harder than Grantaire had expected, persuading Marius to part from Courfeyrac, even if it was going to be a brief parting. That it had been hard at all was frightening. To be rooted was to lose part of the essence of what made someone a Traveller, and Marius had confessed in the woods that he was becoming rooted.

He’d been with Courfeyrac and the Lizots for far longer than Grantaire had been in his Southerling camp, and obviously his memory loss had been a blow, but still. To admit to becoming rooted, and then to say that he’d been thinking of allowing it to happen – it was terrible.

“Travellers are we,” Grantaire had told him, scared for Marius and for himself, for what was Marius in that moment but a view into his own future if he stayed with the Southerlings? “Finonn are we.”

“Like a Traveller I felt not,” Marius had whispered, shamed. “With everyone dead, I knew not what to do.”

“Let’s leave.” Grantaire had gripped Marius’ wrists, and seeing Marius’ panic, added, “Not forever, just for a bit. We can find a Charter Priest, and find our way. Follow our feet, the way we should.”

And so they were following their feet. It felt strange, to be on the road with Marius and no one else. He’d become used to being alone. But he and Marius had always been able to keep up the _pantet_ , talking about everything and nothing, serious and playful subjects circling round each other and feeding each other in endless spirals.

They told each other more about what they’d missed since the Dead had come, shared their observations of the land, compared rumours they’d heard about politics, and moaned about their aches and pains. “We’ve both gone soft,” Grantaire grumbled. “This is what staying still gets you.”

“A bad leg I’ve got,” Marius pointed out, leaning heavily on the stick he’d picked up not long after they’d left the camp. He was on the lookout for a permanent walking stick, he said, something comfortable, but he hadn’t found it yet. 

“Fine, you’ve a decent excuse. We should have horses, that would get us there faster.”

“Different set of aches then.”

“Aye, more in the seat than the feet.”

Marius snorted. “Do you remember the time our pony you raced against that Jeddan boy? What was his name?”

“Declen,” Grantaire remembered, starting to laugh. 

“And you –”

“Black and blue was my arse. Grandda said that pony did a better job than he ever could.” They snickered together, remembering.

“Did he tell us to run?” Marius asked, their laughter trailing off. “Memory still fails me sometimes.”

Grantaire nodded. “He shouted from the van.” Guilt lay heavy on his tongue, but he didn’t want to give it voice in front of Marius. Not when it might sound like an accusation.

They didn’t have a tent, but there was plenty of shelter along the road. When dusk began to fall, they set up camp. Not even a fire, just their bedrolls, pressed close together under the slight protection of a hedge, like two caterpillars in a log. The way they’d always slept in summer when it was warm enough for them to sleep outside the vans. It made more room for everyone else, and it meant they could whisper to each other as late as they pleased. Summer had always been their time.

“It’s on the wane,” Grantaire murmured in Kingdom when Marius said so. “Do you know anything more about these lands the Prince has given them?”

Marius, his longer body curled slightly against Grantaire’s back, made a negative sound. “Only what the Lizots have heard, and what the guards will say. They’ve heard of the Korrovian representative. Her family were piano-makers before the war.”

“Practically royalty then?”

“Aye. I’ve still no idea what a piano is,” he added dryly, “but the way the Southerlings go on about them, you’d think they were the Charter’s own sendings.”

Grantaire grinned. “They have the midsummer celebrations in your camp?”

“And some. I had to sing.” 

“Likewise.” Grantaire laughed. “No good on my own. I wished you were there. We could have shown some achanada.”

“No good at it now,” Marius said sadly. “Not with my leg.”

“Give it a few more years.” The reassurance came easily, now Grantaire was sure they had such time. “Some of Ma’s salves and you’ll be right and shining afore you’re married.” It was only a saying, but Grantaire didn’t miss the little hesitation before Marius answered.

“Aye. You’ll be needing to mix for a while to get your stocks up again.”

“Might need Ma’s cauldron,” Grantaire agreed. “After the Southerlings are settled, we could go and get it.”

“Need a van to put it in.”

“Could get one.”

Marius snorted. “With what coin?”

“Mmm.” Grantaire sighed. “Well, we’ll figure it out. I can’t make my own wares without a cauldron and a van, so I’ll have to save up.” He could see it in his mind’s eye; him and Marius set up in a van of their own, a big cauldron inside, lots of cubs and shelves and winkings to stash bottles and paper and pots. Marius could paint the van up bright; they’d have a horse to pull it, and a dog to guard it. Just the two of them, and then they could join a bigger band if they liked, and follow their feet wherever they led, up and down the Kingdom again, just like before.

They could visit the Southerlings. Grantaire’s heart clenched, and he pushed away the memories of Enjolras and Combeferre’s faces. They could visit them, he told himself firmly. Visit and share a meal and a drink and reminisce about the summer he’d lived with them, a guest in their camp.

And then get back on the road, feet on the path, the way it should be. Roots could be pulled out. Marius had hesitated when Grantaire mentioned marriage, but that was nothing. It would be nothing. They were together again now, and they could live their lives on the path, as Travellers did. Marius had always wanted children, and perhaps it wouldn’t be seen as too strange if Grantaire never married. Some folk didn’t, after all. He could be an uncle to Marius’ children, a brother to whoever Marius married, and they could be a proper family again.

The next day was rainy, but neither of them minded. Grantaire complained about being footsore, and poked fun at his own complaining, for what sort of Traveller ever got footsore on such a small journey? Marius considered what they would say to the Charter Priest in Ganel to persuade them to travel back with them. It wasn’t as if they could pay them, after all. They started hunting as they went, scouting out the sort of terrain they were in. A gift might help get the priest on their side, and if not, well, they could keep whatever they’d offered and no harm done.

By the end of their third day on the road, they’d collected a whole bag of blackberries and a smaller pouch of camomile flowers for tea. Grantaire’s snares had been successful each night, and he was sure they would catch them something good to offer to the priest as payment. They were doing amazingly well, all things considered, so Grantaire wasn’t sure why Marius seemed to grow more miserable with every league they put between themselves and the Southerlings. Coward that he was, he didn’t want to confront him about it. And in any case, Marius seemed to be working himself up to something, though he was going about it in a very roundabout way.

On the morning of the fourth day, when they would arrive into Ganel, Marius asked, “What think you of how the Southerlings don’t marry?”

Grantaire shrugged, adjusting the string over his shoulder that a hare and pheasant were tied to. His snares had done excellently, and as well as those Marius was carrying two rabbits over his own shoulder. “Seemed very strange at first. Seems odd, not having a father.”

“We didn’t, when you think about it.”

“True enough. Life may’ve been easier if not having a father was normal, not shameful.” Easier for him, anyway.

“Like them a little, how we grew up,” Marius said. “Just mothers, and aunts.”

“True.”

“And they don’t always step out with…men don’t always step out with women, or women with men.”

“Mm.” Grantaire looked down at his feet, careful not to react, though Marius hadn’t sounded disgusted, exactly.

“Is it so for Kalarimians too then?” Marius asked. “Just Korrovians, I thought it might be.”

“Kalarimians likewise.” Once, Grantaire would have faked a laugh and said something unkind. Now, he thought of Combeferre and Enjolras, and Joly and Bossuet, and Louison, and Valjean and Javert. He switched back to Kingdom from Fye, his thoughts too muddled for the certainties of his own tongue. “I hope…I hope they don’t catch sharps for it.”

“Why?” Marius, when Grantaire glanced at him, looked surprised. Had he been too accepting? What would their Grandda have said? Their uncle?

“Well I only mean.” Grantaire hesitated, stomach in knots. Their Grandda would have called them diseased. Uneth might have spat on the ground and said how it made him sick, to think of them raising children. “They’re.” He couldn’t bring himself to do or say anything like that. “They’re running from war. They’re travellers too, sort of. I wouldn’t…I don’t know. They’re so…all of ‘em, they don’t care about it. Doesn’t seem to do them any harm.”

“Aire?”

Grantaire looked up. Marius had stopped, so Grantaire did too, staring at him. Marius was pale, pale enough to look ill, his eyes bruised and afraid.

“What?” Grantaire asked, letting go of the string and the strap of his pack as if to reach out, though he was half afraid Marius would flinch away if he tried. “Marius, what happened?” If any of them had hurt him, Grantaire would kill them. If anyone had so much as laid a hand on his cousin, he’d make sure they’d never be safe in the Kingdom as long as they lived.

“It’s Courfeyrac.”

Grantaire’s thoughts stuttered. Courfeyrac, so loved by Combeferre and Enjolras, surely couldn’t be a villain. “What about him?”

Marius swallowed, hands clenched into fists. His freckles, faded since childhood, stood out now on paste-white skin. “I love him.”

Grantaire’s mind saw the connection and dismissed it out of hand. “Alright,” he said slowly. “He’s your friend, I know it.”

“No, no, Grantaire.” Marius lifted a shaking hand and pushed it through his hair, closing his eyes for a second. “I love him,” he said again, opening them and holding Grantaire’s gaze. “Like the Southerlings do. Like Enjolras and Combeferre.”

“You’re bent?” Grantaire’s hands dropped to his side, limp and useless. “You?”

“I’m sorry,” Marius said, voice cracked, and Grantaire recoiled at the sound, at the knowledge that in a way he had been the cause of it.

“Marius –”

“Don’t be angry,” Marius pleaded. “Don’t hate me, I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“Marius –”

“It isn’t Courfeyrac’s fault, he never tried to force me, I never knew I could feel like this and it isn’t his fault, it –”

“Marius!” Grantaire stepped forward and hugged him, something strange setting his insides racing. The hare was pressed between their bodies, and Grantaire made an annoyed sound and pulled it out of the way before pulling Marius close again. 

Marius’s breath shook, chest juddering against Grantaire’s for a moment before he very carefully hugged him back. “Aire?”

“I don’t hate you.” Grantaire squeezed him, feeling as though he had just run a race, everything too bright and his body ready to drop. “I’ll never hate you. When did this happen?” He drew back to look up at Marius, gripping his shoulders tightly. “Is this what you’ve been dancing around all week?”

Marius nodded, blinking in obvious confusion. “I thought…don’t you think there’s something wrong with me?”

Grantaire let go of him, familiar trepidation cutting through his amazement. “Not if you don’t think there’s something wrong with me.”

“What?”

“Marius…” Grantaire swallowed the irrational fear that this was a trick of some sort. “I’m bent. Always have been.”

“You haven’t.” Marius, for a second, looked and sounded the spitting image of Grantaire’s Ma when she was told some shocking piece of gossip, and Grantaire was startled into a burst of laughter. He had to bite down on his lip to stop it turning to tears.

“I have. All my life.”

“You never said!”

“I never would’ve.” It sounded more solemn than he meant, but Marius nodded seriously.

“Grandda would’ve…”

“Aye.”

“Your whole life?” 

“Aye.”

“Charter.” Marius shook his head slowly, eyes wide. “Did you know before you met the Southerlings?”

Grantaire nodded. “All my life.”

“ _Charter_.” Marius lifted a hand to his head and pushed it slowly through his hair. “You never would’ve said,” he muttered, repeating what Grantaire had just told him, and Grantaire nodded again.

“Not worth the risk, is it?”

“But…” Marius frowned and lowered his hand. “How did you know?”

“Well how did you?”

“Courfeyrac,” Marius said simply. “I felt…I couldn’t pretend I loved him only as a friend. You remember Ursule?”

Grantaire pursed his lips with the effort of not snorting. “How could I forget?” They began to walk again, slowly. It was bad luck to stand still on a road for too long – roads were meant to be travelled.

Marius’ cheeks flushed. Ursule was a cousin of theirs through their Uncle Uneth, so they’d always seen her at the Moot each year. Marius had fancied her since they were only children. “It was like that,” Marius said, with as much dignity as he could manage. “The same. And it didn’t matter Courfeyrac was a man – it was still the same for me. So how did you know?”

Grantaire let out a long breath. “I’ve never fancied girls. Same way you figured you had a shine for Ursule, I figured I fancied other boys. Men, now.”

“Who? I mean, who was your first?”

“That I fancied?”

“Aye.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows and tried to think back. “Yan, maybe.”

“Who?”

“Grandson of Inker Lannet,” Grantaire said. “Maybe you won’t remember.”

“No, I do!” Marius was frowning like he couldn’t picture Yan though. Which was fair enough – Inker Lannet had tattooed their family until his hands had begun to shake, and then they’d turned to Inker Pavel. Grantaire’s marriage tattoo was Inker Pavel’s work, and he’d known him by that point. Inker Lannet must have put away his needles while Grantaire was younger, maybe when he was only eleven or so. He was sure he’d finished Grantaire’s clan tattoo at least.

“Well, anyhow, he was the first boy I took a shine to.” Grantaire looked at the road ahead of them, not quite able to believe they were talking about this.

Marius was quiet for a little while. “What about now?” he asked finally. “Is there anyone you’ve taken a shine to now?”

Grantaire wanted to laugh. “Aye. Two, in fact.”

“Southerlings?”

“Aye.”

“Could you…well, I mean to say, it’s normal for them, en’t it?” Marius encouraging him to take his luck in hand was so familiar that it almost brought tears to Grantaire’s eyes, and he couldn’t help laughing.

“You can’t push me at Rya or Leanna, so now it’s the next best?”

Marius laughed. “I want to see you happy! The way I am with Courfeyrac…” He gave Grantaire a shy sort of smile that faltered after a second. “You truly don’t think there’s something wrong with us?” 

Grantaire shook his head and sighed. “I’ve thought it, time to time. But en’t nothing I can do about it. It’s not an illness, it’s never hurt me. It’s bad luck, more’n anything else. I used to think maybe there was something crossed in my head that makes me like boys and not girls, but I don’t think so now. Not if it’s so common for the Southerlings. We’re all human, en’t we? More likely it’s something normal and most of our folk keep it hidden. Can’t be helped – just bad luck. And it can be good,” he added, smiling a little at Marius. “It can make you happy, even if it’s only for a little time.”

“I never thought I could be this happy,” Marius said, his smile returning in full force. “Who are they? The men you fancy?” He hesitated for the briefest second on _men,_ a stumble that made Grantaire want to laugh and hug him again, even as uncertainty twisted in his own chest.

He looked down at the road, the hard-packed earth baked by summer sun with two grooves where the wheels of wagons and vans had dragged through it when it hadn’t been so hard. “Courfeyrac’s friends,” he admitted quietly. “Combeferre and Enjolras.”

“Charter.” Marius sounded surprised. “Both of them?”

Grantaire laughed, not entirely happily. “Aye.” He hadn’t been thinking about what Enjolras had said in the narrow space between tents the night before he and Marius had left. He’d dismissed it out of hand and forgotten about it, letting it sink to the bottom of his mind like a stone to the bottom of a well, out of sight. They had each other again now – what need could either of them possibly have for him?

“Has that ever happened before?” Marius asked, hesitant, but curious. “Fancying two people at the same time?”

Grantaire shook his head. “Not like this.” He looked at Marius, who was gazing thoughtfully at the horizon. How many times had he tripped over his own feet by doing that? How many times had their Grandda scolded him for not keeping an eye on the path? “Marius.”

“Aye?”

Grantaire swallowed trepidation. “When Courfeyrac goes back to his camp, what’ll you do?”

Marius took a deep breath and looked at him. “I’m going to go with him.”

Grantaire held his gaze, an awful coldness making its way through his body. “And after the Southerlings are settled?”

Marius licked his lips nervously. “What’re you asking?”

“Are you rooted?”

Marius looked away, and that was answer enough. “I love him,” he said quietly, as if he wasn’t breaking Grantaire’s heart. “And I love his family. And I liked being a help to the Southerlings who pulled me out of the river near Qyrre. I can translate, and make sure no one cheats them. There’ll be trade, in time. I can move along those routes, do what I can. And I can teach them the Charter, what I know. Courfeyrac’s ma, she’s said they’ll make a place for me at their table however long I want to stay, and Aire, I want to. I’m sorry.”

Blood of his blood. That was all Grantaire could think of. Blood of his blood, kin of his kin. True to clan, to ink, to path. The creed all Travellers lived by – the creed that was broken if they became rooted. 

“I wouldn’t be the first,” Marius said quietly.

Grantaire wanted to speak in Fye. He wanted to call Marius a _bashvat,_ an oath-breaker. _Eresh-achvan,_ a liar. _Anachanadra orbet besheven,_ a bloodless murderer. Because what was Marius doing by rooting himself if not killing himself, and Grantaire? 

To say such things in Fye would make them curses. Perhaps in their first world, their tongue had been an easy one, like Kingdom, or Chellanian. Now it was one of their sacred secrets, and every word held weight. If Grantaire spoke his thoughts to Marius in Fye now, he would never be able to take them back.

“None of the others are my cousin,” he said instead, voice rough. “My only blood kin. I don’t care about them like I do you. I found you not five days ago, Marius. You wish to be rid of me so fast?”

“No!” Marius stopped and grabbed his arm. “No, never!”

“But you would!” Grantaire snapped, yanking his arm away. “You can’t be a Traveller and be rooted!”

“That doesn’t mean I would stop being your blood!”

“What is a rooted Traveller?” Grantaire hissed.

Marius’ face was pale, his lips trembling. He knew the answer, but he didn’t say it, so Grantaire did it for him.

“Dead. He is dead. You either walk the path or become the path. You can’t do both.”

“I don’t need to.” Marius grabbed his wrist again, and held on tighter when Grantaire tried to pull away. “If I’m the path you walk on from time to time, we still meet! I won’t be lost to you forever, or you to me!”

Grantaire tugged his arm away so sharply that Marius staggered, and started to walk again. Stalking ahead and swallowing tears, a sharp pain in his chest. He’d just found Marius again, he wanted to cry. He’d imagined them on the road, in a van of their own, a horse and a dog, together till death parted them. Only true death should have parted them, not this. Never this.

He slowed his pace after a little while, mindful of Marius’ leg, glad that Marius didn’t try to talk to him again. He didn’t trust himself not to say something terrible if they spoke.

He wished Marius had never met Courfeyrac. That Courfeyrac and his family had been in another camp, still in Ancelstierre, still in Korrovia. Let them rot there, if Grantaire could have Marius back. They were _family._ Family were supposed to stay together all their lives. Even if Marius had married another Finonn girl, or Tilonn, or a Jeddan girl whose family wanted her to stay enough to barter for Marius to live with them, at least then Grantaire would have had the chance to join whatever band Marius did.

If he stayed with the Southerlings, truly rooted…

Grantaire had already told those who had asked that Marius had drowned. To many Travellers, that was a better fate than becoming rooted.

Marius came to walk alongside him again, head bowed. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Truly, I am.”

“Could you not visit him?” Grantaire asked, pleading. “Plenty do that.”

“I won’t make Courfeyrac my pilshv,” Marius said, sounding scandalised. A pilshv – a rachem lover – was something shameful to be hidden, after all. Marius didn’t seem to realise that any male lovers either of them took would be no better, whether they were rachem or not. “I love him!”

“More than me.” Grantaire’s face flushed hot with embarrassment and anger. “More than your people.”

“Not more than you,” Marius insisted. “But my people…maybe.”

Grantaire stopped to gape at him. “How can you say that?”

“How can you not see how I could?” Marius looked away from him, eyebrows pinched. “I don’t…I don’t hate our people,” he said after a moment. “I don’t _hate_ any of it. I love our people. But I mislike our ways.”

“Our ways keep us safe,” Grantaire reminded him sharply. “They keep us together.”

“And at what cost?” Marius met his eyes. “You of all people should know the burden of the expectations placed on us.”

“Me of all people?” Grantaire’s breath was thin, his heart hammering. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Knowing you were bent all this time,” Marius said, as though it was nothing, as though the secret Grantaire had kept and agonised over and held out of sight of all others was something to be tossed out casually in an argument. 

Grantaire almost let fly with the curses he’d kept locked behind his lips earlier. His breath shook as he let it out and drew it in, his chest tight. “Me of all people,” he said in a low voice. “Aye. Well. That’s my business, isn’t it? Not yours, not anyone else’s. Certainly not any of our folk. And if I can live with it, I see no reason why you can’t.”

Marius shook his head, and it took a moment for Grantaire to register the expression on his face as one of hurt. As though Grantaire was the one breaking his heart, and not the other way around. “You shouldn’t _have_ to live with it,” he protested. “Aire, that’s exactly what I mean. To live as ourselves isn’t possible as Travellers. It’d be living a lie.”

“People, clan, family, self,” Grantaire spat. “Remember that? That is how we live. No one person is more important than another, no one person is more important than the family or the clan or _all of us together!_ Is that a lie?”

“No.” Marius swallowed. “But those things shouldn’t exist at the expense of the self.”

Grantaire stared at him, baffled and furious. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Marius took a deep breath and made a nervous gesture, beckoning Grantaire on as he started to walk again. Slow, leaning on his stick. He licked his lips before starting to speak. “Would you’ve been happy, living like that forever? Never being able to love someone – love a man – in front of anyone else?”

“Life’s more than that, Marius,” Grantaire snapped. “It’s only one part of me. It’s like…eating Aunt Janess’ minty soup. I didn’t like it much, but it’s what was in front of me, and I wasn’t going to tell her I didn’t want it.”

“It’s nothing like that!”

“What’s it like then?” Grantaire glared at him. “Since you know so well?”

Marius clenched his jaw, a stormy look on his face. “It en’t fair. That’s what it’s like. It en’t right. Soup en’t the same as your own feelings. Hiding your thoughts on bad soup en’t the same as hiding that. It’s about what would happen. If you told Aunt Janess you didn’t like her soup, worst that’d happen is a smack round the head and getting hissed out for being rude. Maybe she’d tongue-lash you next time she made it. You wouldn’t be exiled.”

Grantaire swallowed, but shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s one part of life I can live without. Family comes afore self. My ma’d had enough shame in her life without her son being bent.”

Marius made a quiet, hurt sound that once again baffled Grantaire. “That’s my point! It shouldn’t be something to be shamed for! It’s natural, en’t it? Same as it’s natural for men to be with women, so it’s natural for men to be with men, and women with women. It’s wrong that Travellers treat it like a disease when it en’t, and when you can’t help being born bent. You can’t tell me you don’t mind it.”

“Course I mind,” Grantaire said before he could stop himself. “I just never thought it was worth dying over.” To be driven from his clan would have been a death far crueller than any mortal end, after all. He looked at Marius. “You think it is?”

Marius sighed. “I think…it en’t the same as really dying.”

“No, you’re still alive to know it.” Grantaire shook his head. “It’s no way to live.”

“But lying to everyone you know is?” Marius countered. “How’s that?”

“It en’t lying. It’s just keeping something that’d hurt people secret.”

“It’s lying,” Marius said bluntly.

“It’s no one else’s business,” Grantaire snapped, angry again. “What does it matter if I lie about that to stay with my people? It’s better that way.”

“Would you’ve been happy?”

Grantaire remembered Combeferre asking him something like that. “Yes. It wouldn’t’ve been a bad life.”

Marius shook his head. “Really? To never marry?”

“I would’ve married,” Grantaire protested. “You think Ma would’ve let me get away with not giving her grandchildren?”

Marius gaped at him. “But…how can you say it doesn’t matter then?”

“What?”

Marius stopped this time, apparently so overcome that he had to look at Grantaire properly without risking tripping over his own feet. “You’d make a liar of your wife! How can you say I’m killing myself when you’d do something like that? You’d live a lie your whole life and make some poor woman party to it? We marry for life because we marry for _love!_ And you’d kill someone to keep your secret? You know you’d be killing her, don’t you? Did you even ever think about that?”

Grantaire grasped for a response that didn’t come, panicking a little. Of course he’d never thought about it – he’d never dwelled on the prospect of having to marry beyond knowing he’d have to do it. Though he had been guiltily relieved when he’d realised after everyone had died that he didn’t have to anymore.

“You didn’t, did you?” Marius gave him such a disapproving look that Grantaire’s insides squirmed. “You’d be taking away her chance at love and happiness, all for your own sake. How’s that putting the people afore yourself?”

Grantaire swallowed. “I. It. I was…I just wanted to be like everyone else.”

“But you en’t. And neither am I.” Marius started to walk again, scowling heavily. “We shouldn’t be punished for that, for something we can’t help and what does no harm to anyone.”

“We’d not be having children,” Grantaire reminded him quietly, and Marius scoffed.

“We’d hardly be the only ones not to; no one was casting out Aunt Ganel for not marrying and having half a dozen tots.”

Grantaire had no rebuttal to that. Ganel had always said she loved Grandda too much to leave him, and she wasn’t one for marrying anyway. And between Grantaire and Marius, she’d always said she’d had her fill of babies.

Grantaire missed her. If he’d ever been asked before the Hands had killed everyone who his least favourite aunt was, he would have said her. She had a small sense of humour and even less patience – at least for children. She’d softened as he and Marius had grown though, and after the night they’d fought off the men who’d tried to set the van alight, she’d appreciated them more. And he’d appreciated her, particularly her sharp kind of sarcasm. When it was directed at other people, it was very funny indeed.

She’d been named Ganel after the town Grandda had started courting Granma in. The town they were going to now. And for the first time, the thought occurred to Grantaire that Ganel might not have been the marrying sort because perhaps she didn’t like men at all, or at least not enough to marry one. There was no proof of it – people didn’t marry for all sorts of reasons, he was sure, and Ganel had never even hinted at fancying women. But maybe she had. 

Maybe when he died too and they met again, he’d ask her. If it wouldn’t offend her too much.

“What about you then?” he asked Marius, unable to distract himself completely. “Would you be happy? Rooting yourself and never…never coming to the Moot again? Never walking the path, ever again?”

Marius sighed. “I’ve _been_ happy, Aire. Even when I remembered who I was and where I’m from, with me thinking all you were dead, I didn’t see the point in returning when I was happier where I was. And then I had Courfeyrac, and his family, and they’ve all been so kind. And I know it en’t perfect for them neither, but their kind of imperfect suits me better than the one we grew up with.”

“You’ll never be one of them,” Grantaire said. “Not the way you’re a Traveller.”

“Aye. But I can live with that.”

Grantaire looked at the ground, well-trod and almost smooth now they were so close to Ganel. When the breeze changed he could smell the town, and the sea. “And nothing’s changed now,” he said dully. “Now you know you’re not alone. I’m alive.”

“ _Only forwards goes the walk,_ ” Marius quoted in Fye. “I can’t go back, Aire. Now I know how I can live, being happy, being free…going back now would be death. And I won’t kill myself for anything or anyone. You shouldn’t either.”

“I’d die either way,” Grantaire said, misery dragging his voice low. “I see the flaws as well as you, but I love our people too much to leave. I’d rather die than do that. So I’ll kill my heart to stay.”

“Is it worth it?” Marius only came to walk at his side as they entered Ganel, passing the first small cottage on the outskirts. The sea was a silver-blue line on the horizon, the smell of salt and fish increasing as they walked in, the cold wind carrying it to them. The western seas were rougher than the eastern, but today the water sparkled and danced, the sun setting it flashing like it was mirrored. 

Grantaire watched the painful-bright stripe of it rather than look at Marius, unable to answer. They walked in silence into the town proper, small well-built houses with carefully tended gardens lining a road where well-worn cobbles began to emerge from the dirt as they went further in.

“Pardon, mistress,” Marius said, waylaying a woman with a tall basket on her back, empty if the way she was holding herself was any indication. “Is there a priest in these parts?”

“Aye, there is.” The woman looked them both up and down. “You can find her second street back from the harbour. House with a black door.”

“Our thanks, mistress.”

She nodded and went on her way. Grantaire fell in behind Marius as he led the way through the crooked streets. Ganel was large, for its location. Rough as they were, the seas here were rich. Their family had passed through a couple of times before, trading skins and medicines for smoked fish and strong seaweed rope. Aunt Ganel had always smiled when Grandda told the story of her naming, the way he and Granma had decided together.

The girl who opened the black door when they knocked was just that – a girl, no older than fifteen by Grantaire’s guess. She had bright red hair and narrow eyes, but she met theirs confidently. “Have you business here, Travellers?”

“Not by appointment, miss. There’s baptisms need making, and neither of us are priests.” Marius tipped his head back to indicate Grantaire. “Would your master be willing to –”

“Mistress,” a sharp voice interrupted, and a taller red-haired woman with a deeply lined face came to stand behind the girl. “Mistress Saba. What’s the exchange?”

Grantaire nudged Marius back gently and indicated their goods. “Meat caught fresh, mistress, a fine lot of good blackberries and flowers that need only be dried a spell afore they’ll make a tea for easing and encouraging sleep.”

“How fresh?” Saba asked, holding out a hand, and Grantaire loosed the string tying the hare’s feet and handed it over. 

“Snares laid last night, mistress, and we’ve walked only a few hours.” It was early afternoon and they’d been walking since dawn, but it was close enough to the truth. “We’d be happy to skin them for you, mistress.”

“And pluck,” she said, eyeing the pheasant. “How far are you camped?”

“En’t for Travellers, mistress,” Marius said, voice respectfully low. “It’s for Southerlings. There’s a camp to the east. Took us four days, but we could make it three for certain. We’ve friends there, and they want baptising.”

“Foreigners?” Saba cocked her head. “These blue-capped ones I’ve heard about? From across the Wall?”

Marius nodded. “Aye, mistress.”

“How many baptisms?”

“Two dozen or so, perhaps more,” Grantaire said. “Some’re suspicious and don’t understand the Charter yet. Others understand they’ll need it to have a fighting chance here.”

“They’re under guard?”

“Aye, for their own protection.”

“How many?”

“Five or six guards a camp.”

“How many camps?”

Grantaire glanced at Marius, who said, “Four at least, there might be more by now. They’re stretched in a line from where we’ve come from to the Wall.”

“Why not all together?”

“Puts less strain on the land, mistress.” Marius shifted his weight carefully. “There’s a thousand at least in each camp, and more coming.”

“Charter preserve. And they’ll all want baptising afore long.” Saba had a calculating eye, and Grantaire nodded. She could see the potential for profit, that was for sure. “All of this,” she said, handing the hare back to him. “And you’ll skin, pluck, salt, and cook it too.”

“Skin and pluck, not salt and cook,” Grantaire said firmly. 

“Salt and cook or no deal, lads.”

As if they weren’t grown men. “Skin and pluck,” Grantaire said evenly, “and we tell you all we know of the Southerlings on our way to them.” She’d been very quick with her questions, and he’d never met a priest or a mage in his life who weren’t gossipers and knowledge-eaters. Give a mage the choice between a meal and a piece of news and he’d take the news two times out of three.

She snorted, but nodded. “Deal.” She stuck her hand out, and Grantaire shook it, then Marius. “Give all that to Betta and come through. I’ll get my things.” She swept away, and Betta sighed, holding the door open for them to come in. 

Grantaire hadn’t been in many houses in his life – he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been under a roof – so he looked around with interest as he followed Betta into a large room that he judged took up almost all of the lower floor. There was a sturdy ladder-like set of wooden steps at the far end leading up into the roof, where he assumed the occupants slept. Two doors in the wall below and one in the back wall, standing open and showing a slice of garden beyond. 

Saba climbed up the steps and disappeared into the roof, and Betta led them to a large wooden table in the middle of the room, sweeping a clutter of plants and bottles and papers and all sorts to one end. The hearth was banked low, but when Grantaire put his back to it he could still feel the heat.

“You oughta do the blood work outside,” Betta said, beckoning for them to follow her through the back door. “Either of you want a stool?”

“My cousin will, with our thanks, miss,” Grantaire said quickly, ignoring Marius’ annoyed look.

“I can still squat just fine,” he said under his breath as Betta ducked back inside.

“You’re near limping already, and we’ll be off again soon. No harm in resting a minute.”

Marius huffed, but didn’t argue when Betta came out with a stout three-legged stool. He took the pheasant, plucking being a job he’d always done better than Grantaire, who made quick work of the rabbits and hare, spreading the skins out and starting to scrape them clean. Betta came out and squatted next to him as he worked, using her own knife to work at the skin of the hare.

Once they were done, they all stood and went back inside. Saba was there, smoking a pipe at the table and writing something down. “You’ll give this to that idiot Bethan,” she said carefully around the stem of the pipe. “And tell her if she don’t follow simple instructions, she’s no cause to go round blaming me for selling her dud remedies.”

“I’ll pretty it up a bit, shall I?” Betta said dryly, laying the skinned rabbits and hare at the end of the table, the pheasant next to them. “Skins’re outside still.”

“You can give them to Mr Procks,” Saba said, inhaling deeply and exhaling a long plume of darkly scented smoke. “You can manage all else, I expect. I’ll try and send word if I’m to be gone longer’n a week, but don’t fret till three’ve gone. Might be my services’d be required at more of these camps, and the guards’ll have real money. I don’t suppose these Southerlings have any?” she asked, looking up at Grantaire and Marius, who both shook their heads.

“They’ve less than a handful of cloud, some of them,” Marius said, and Saba sighed.

“Thought so. Ah well.” She stood up and tapped her pipe out against the side of the hearth. “Let’s be off.”

Marius checked Betta knew how to best dry the camomile flowers as Saba swung a good travelling cloak across her shoulders and a well-used bag across her back. She held a staff, like Marius’ stick but clearly made for the purpose. She nodded to Betta before they walked out the door, and Betta nodded back. No further pleasantries exchanged, and that reminded Grantaire of Grandda so strongly he had to look away and swallow a lump in his throat.

Grantaire let Marius answer most of Saba’s questions until his voice started to rasp, and then he took over out of mercy. Marius knew more, in any case. He’d been living with the Southerlings for longer, and he spoke their language better. He even spoke a little Azhdik, the main tongue of Iskeria and Iznenia. There were other languages Grantaire had never even heard of, and it was clearly something that fascinated Marius, but it held no particular interest for him. 

Marius had a much better grasp of their gender system as well, which was interesting. Grantaire hadn’t realised how thin his own knowledge of the role of pemmes in Southerling society was, and listened as attentively as Saba did as Marius explained about certain funeral rites only being allowed to be performed by pemmes, about their traditional roles as healers and priests, about parts of Korrovia turning on pemmes during the conflict and killing them in mass shootings and mass hangings.

Grantaire told Saba instead about what he knew of Kalarimian politics, and their professions. He told her about the midsummer celebrations and the types of food they said they missed. She asked about their religion and he answered as best he could, likewise when she asked about their system of justice. He knew nothing about how they’d paid taxes in Kalarime, or what their industries of labour had been beyond farming and music. He remembered at the last second that Combeferre’s family had owned their town’s newspaper, and then had explain what that was to Saba.

The woman’s interest was endless. They talked until they had to camp, they talked in the morning, they talked as they ate (Saba shared cake, cheese, and a loaf of bread she’d brought, in exchange for Grantaire and Marius sharing what they caught overnight). 

Saba laughed when neither of them could tell her anything about the currency the Southerlings used. She was irritated when they couldn’t tell her anything about the education beyond that they could read and count, and some people went to cities to get further schooling. She was exasperated when they admitted they didn’t know how they had hot water in all their houses – they just did.

She didn’t ask about weddings until the morning of the third day, things like commerce and trade having clearly been higher on her list of priorities. But that was the point where Marius had to explain that Southerlings didn’t marry at all, and Saba was fascinated. When Marius told her with careful detachment that they didn’t have any problem with unions between men and men and women and women, Saba made a curious sound. “How does that work with their pemmes?”

Grantaire and Marius exchanged a puzzled look. “Don’t think it makes any difference, mistress,” Marius said. 

“Hm. I suppose when you think about it, folk only marry to provide for their children.”

Marius stared at her, visibly taken aback. “Begging your pardon, mistress, but I’d reckon love comes into it somewhere.”

Saba laughed. “Maybe so, lad. Still, Travellers marry for life, don’t they?”

“Aye.” Not all rachem did, Grantaire knew. Not even in the sense that they would remarry after the death of a spouse – Travellers could do that, there was nothing forbidding them, provided both families approved. But some rachem treated marriage as a rolling contract that had to be renewed every ten years or some previously agreed on span of time. It seemed unnatural to Grantaire, and to Marius too. To marry a person was to agree to spend a lifetime with them. It was a promise with worth and weight. Plenty of Travellers saw contract marriages as distasteful, and Marius had definitely called them unromantic in the past.

Saba shook her head. “Different customs for different sorts, plenty of room for all. And I suppose if the children are being raised right it don’t matter. What d’you two think of the way they do things?”

Marius glanced at Grantaire hesitantly, then said, “Different customs for different sorts, mistress, as you say. Having lived with them so long though, it en’t bad. Different, for certain, but not bad. I can’t say I understand it. Putting romance aside from your family seems odd to me, but for Southerlings, their blood family comes afore all else.”

“What if someone wants to leave their family?” Saba asked curiously.

Marius pursed his lips. “I don’t think they could. It wouldn’t be easy, that’s certain. Their family might try to bring them back if they ran away, but I don’t think there’s any laws stopping someone leaving for good. You might go elsewhere and just never return. I think…it seems easier for the lads, at least. If they hike off, well, to the Southerlings they’re only a lad, so it en’t such a loss at the end of the day. If a daughter tried to do the same, that’d be another matter.”

“Because she can breed,” Saba said knowingly, and Marius nodded.

“Her babes’d be family blood.”

“Thought you said the women ran things?”

Marius nodded thoughtfully. “I reckon if the matriarch – the head of the family – if she said it was alright, the others’d let it go. Depends on things. A family needs daughters for the next generation. And when a family gets too big, it’s a woman who starts a new house, though she’d usually take cousins or siblings and her children with her.”

“What if they only have sons?” Saba asked, raising an eyebrow.

“They’d adopt.” Marius shrugged. “That happens sometimes. Lot of adoptions been happening since the war, I’ve heard.”

“A family I know,” Grantaire said suddenly. “Their matriarch adopted a man who helped their family. He’s her brother now, by the laws of their folk. Part of the family same as any other.”

“And if they adopted a girl,” Saba said, “she’d count as their blood?”

Grantaire nodded, and so did Marius. “Soon as she took their name, she belongs to that family,” Marius confirmed.

“Can a pemme be a matriarch?”

“No, only women.”

“A pemme can be…” Saba pursed her lips. “Womanly by body, that right? So could bear children?”

“Oh aye,” Marius nodded. “But a pemme can’t be matriarch. Seems strange to me – there’s a family I know of where the matriarch is only twenty or so, and she has five uncles with decades on her. But she’s the one making the decisions.”

“No doubt they advise her,” Saba said dryly. “Tell me – if they don’t marry, do they have laws for infidelity?”

Again, Marius glanced uncertainly at Grantaire before answering. “No, mistress. Seems strange to me, but there’s no rules for it. A couple might agree to be true only to each other, but if one steps out with another, there’s no official punishment for it. And if they agree…well, a Southerling might step out with more than one, and no one looks twice.”

Saba laughed. “Do they have no nether ills at all?”

Grantaire winced, but Marius just shrugged. “I asked once, but it didn’t sound like they did, mistress. They say you can’t catch diseases in bed.”

“Right odd.” Saba shook her head. “What if a lass is stepping out with two men? Ah – I suppose if the babes are her family’s alone, it doesn’t matter, is that it?”

Marius nodded. “They might all lay together at the same time,” he added, bold. “No Southerling would find that strange.”

“But they don’t carry these affections into their families at all?” Saba raised her eyebrows. “Can’t imagine it.”

“What seems odd to me,” Grantaire said, unable to hold his tongue, “is the fathers. A man should want to know his children. I can’t understand how their men don’t care.”

“They act as fathers to their sisters’ children,” Marius pointed out. “By their thinking, those children are as much theirs as they are their sisters’.”

Grantaire shook his head. “Still seems odd to me.”

“I agree,” Saba said. “For all I think babes are messy wastes of time, I’ve seen parents do wild things for their offspring.”

“The uncles would do those things,” Marius shrugged. “That’s the role they play.”

“Hm. I suppose it’s like you see with dogs and cats – sometimes the dog or the tom wants to play families alongside the mother, sometimes not.” Saba switched her staff from one hand to the other. “How far now, lads?”

“Not far. We’ll be there afore dusk,” Marius said confidently.

While Saba started asking about the uncles Marius had seen tending to their sisters’ offspring, Grantaire’s thoughts turned in the direction of what would happen when they arrived at the camp.

It all swirled around his head. Marius, rooted, determined to stay with Courfeyrac. His dreams of their future, now dust. And Enjolras, telling him in slow, hesitant Kingdom before he left that three was a good number. He’d put that especially from his mind, too full of joy at Marius’ return. It had seemed a good solution to his heartache, the best distraction in the world. He and Marius would leave, and there was no real choice to be made.

Except now, Marius wasn’t leaving. And the choice remained.

Grantaire couldn’t focus on it. The whole situation seemed like a dream, something fanciful he’d thought up while he’d walked alone in the woods. Combeferre and Enjolras had found each other again – what could either of them possibly want someone like him for? An outsider, not even of their people, someone who blundered into what they called _faux pas_ at every opportunity. A buffoon and a fool who had leeched off their family for weeks, overstaying his welcome.

It must have been a mistake. That was the only thing he could imagine.

Grantaire bent his head under the sun, hair cut short by a foreigner, and tried instead to imagine a future where Marius lived but stayed in one place. Rooted to Courfeyrac and the Lizots. Turning away from his people, from his family. From Grantaire.

Had he missed Grantaire at all? Grantaire couldn’t believe that he had, if he was so ready to forsake his only living kin for a Southerling, and a man at that. 

Marius couldn’t love him much, that was clear.

Stinging all over from the lash of his own thoughts, Grantaire struggled to lift his head as they reached the camp. The familiarity didn’t feel good. Returning to places was supposed to be like going to Ganel had been – a sort of pleasant exercise in trying to remember what was the same and what had changed. Or like going back to Belisaere for the horse fair and greeting friends not seen for a year, catching up with tavern keepers and street cleaners and traders who plied their trade locally. 

It shouldn’t be like this. A Traveller shouldn’t know somewhere like the back of his hand – that was the business of rachem. 

Bahorel and one of the other guards – Jemiah, Grantaire thought – checked Saba’s Charter mark and gave her the nod to go in and baptise any who wanted to be baptised.

“Word is we’ll be asking local Charter priests and mages for baptisms once they’ve settled permanently,” Bahorel told Grantaire. “Jehan heard the Abhorsen herself might come and oversee some.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “That’s good of her.”

“Aye,” Bahorel agreed. “She’s a good sort.”

Grantaire glanced at Marius and Saba, who were waiting for him. Behind them, several Southerlings were openly staring, watching in cautious silence. “Sir,” Grantaire said slowly, looking back at Bahorel. “Would you mind accompanying us? Some of the Southerlings might not be happy at seeing their brethren baptised.”

“Well they’re fools if they are,” Bahorel said bluntly, but buckled his helmet one-handed. “But I’ll come.”

“Our thanks.”

They went to the Brideau circle. Most were there – only Valjean and Javert were absent, when Grantaire looked around. Marius went to embrace Courfeyrac, who stood by Enjolras and Combeferre, and Grantaire averted his gaze.

“Grantaire.”

Grantaire turned and bowed to Fantine, with some relief. “Madame. I’ve brought a Charter Priest.”

“Saba.” Saba stepped forward and nodded. “How do, mistress. I take it you’re this band’s matriarch?”

Fantine smiled. “I am, for my family. I will be first to allow this.”

“Very well.” Saba looked around. “I’ll need use of your fire and a measure of water, enough for everyone who wants baptism.”

There were onlookers already, muttering and staring, some looking eager, others afraid. Grantaire stood back and watched. He’d explained the baptism process before, several times, so everyone in this circle at least knew what to expect. Fantine stood before Saba, who crouched and touched her fingers to the ash of the fire, drawing a Charter mark on her forehead with it. Then she took a small, empty vial from her pocket and dipped it into a full pot of water Cosette and Musichetta had carried over, filling it.

Grantaire had seen baptisms before, and he didn’t watch Saba as she chanted and drew the song and light of the Charter into the water in her vial. He watched their observers instead, and opposite him Bahorel watched those who stood behind Grantaire.

Saba fell silent, and bent to touch the vial briefly to the ground. As she straightened, she touched the vial to her forehead, to the ash-drawn Charter mark, and then pulled her thumb back from the opening and splashed the glowing water over Fantine’s head. There were a couple of cries from the crowd gathering around them, shocked faces peering over the tents, but no one tried to stop them.

“By the Charter that binds all things,” Saba said. “We name thee –?”

“Fantine,” Fantine said calmly, water dripping from her eyelashes and hair, and blinked as the ash vanished from Saba’s forehead, and a mark of the same shape appeared on Fantine’s, glowing for a moment before it faded. There was an outburst around them as people began to talk, then shout to be heard over each other.

Amid it all, Fantine stepped forward, and it was Saba’s turn to look taken aback as Fantine kissed her cheeks lightly. “Thank you,” she said as she stepped back, and smiled. She turned to hold a hand out to Cosette. “My daughter next.”

People were really shouting now, and Enjolras, when Grantaire looked, was glaring around with his fist balled up tight, Combeferre’s hand on his shoulder. Wound tight as a bow, by the look of it, but at Fantine’s stern head shake, he restrained himself to only baring his teeth at their audience.

They got through Cosette and Yvette without major incident, but then Montparnasse showed up. Before anything could happen, Enjolras was in front of him, talking quickly but calmly. Too quiet for Grantaire to hear a word over the noise, but Montparnasse didn’t start a fight. He – they, Grantaire reminded himself – didn’t look happy, but they moved away and went to talk to an older pemme who narrowed their eyes, but nodded. 

They both began to move through the crowd, and things began to quiet a little. Grantaire watched them, still no idea what they were saying, as Musichetta and Gallia were both baptised. Enjolras took his turn then, and Grantaire couldn’t look away from that in more than quick bursts, his eyes drawn back helplessly.

Enjolras’ expression gave nothing away. He closed his eyes when Saba upended her vial over his head, and when it was done, he – 

He was coming straight for Grantaire, Grantaire realised, and tried not to panic too obviously. “When you greeted the guards, Combeferre told me you touched their marks,” Enjolras said, without preamble. “You said that is the way to be sure a mark is not corrupted. Or a person is not corrupted.”

Grantaire blinked and nodded slowly. “Aye.”

“May I?” Enjolras’ eyes flicked to his forehead, and Grantaire hesitated, glancing over Enjolras’ shoulder to the audience that was quieter now, but still rumbling with distrust at Saba’s actions.

But Grantaire had never been able to refuse Enjolras. “If you like,” he said helplessly, and when Enjolras smiled, just a little, Grantaire’s stupid heart fluttered.

Enjolras lifted his hand slowly, and Grantaire did the same. He pressed two fingers to the freshly-gifted mark on Enjolras’ forehead, and felt the familiar, pleasant sensation of falling into the flow of the Charter a second before Enjolras did the same.

“Oh,” Enjolras whispered. 

Grantaire allowed himself to drift for a moment, giving Enjolras the time to appreciate the depth of the flow. No beginning, no end, all beautiful and golden and bright. Grantaire drew his fingers back, but Enjolras didn’t, and Grantaire blinked and saw him start to smile. “Enjolras?”

“How would I know?” Enjolras said in Chellanian. “If you were corrupted?”

Grantaire grinned. “You’d know. You’d not see the Charter, for starts. You’d feel and smell it – Free Magic’s like rust on good metal. Smells bad, tastes worse, like blood in the mouth. Hurts to touch, like sparks under your skin.”

“Like…” Enjolras said a word Grantaire didn’t know, and finally dropped his hand. “Ants,” he said in Kingdom. “To have ants. Under your skin, as you say. Like when you sit or lie wrong and your limb does not wake up right away.”

“Aye.” Grantaire smiled. “Like that.”

People were watching them, he realised very suddenly, and felt himself blush. “Are you well?” Enjolras asked, either not noticing or – Grantaire corrected himself immediately – not caring about their audience.

The question brought him back into time in more ways than one. Grantaire glanced away, over to Marius. Who had his arm around Courfeyrac’s waist. Grantaire felt such a storm of things on seeing that that he had to look away almost immediately, breath catching in his throat. In front of him, Enjolras was waiting for a reply, and Grantaire swallowed before he said, “Well enough.”

Cosette called Enjolras’ name before Grantaire could ask after his own wellbeing, and Enjolras touched Grantaire’s arm – a small shock – before turning away to go to her. Without him standing right in front of Grantaire, the rest of the world seemed to come back into focus.

Grantaire had only been away a handful of days. He couldn’t remember if this was how he’d always reacted to Enjolras, or if it was a new development. Neither prospect was exactly ideal. He couldn’t make such a mistake again. He glanced over surreptitiously and sighed half in relief when he saw Combeferre was watching Enjolras as well.

Three was a good number. 

Grantaire circled around the thought for a second before flinching away, forcing himself to concentrate on Saba’s ongoing baptisms. Fantine was talking to people in the crowd now, Cosette at her side, and the mood was no longer entirely hostile. What had Fantine been buttering people up for, if not for moments like this? She went to speak to Bahorel, drawing him into the talking, and a minute later, he demonstrated a little burst of light from the palm of his hand.

She could’ve asked him, but Grantaire supposed it meant more, coming from someone in uniform.

Saba refilled her vial from the pot of water and beckoned the next person forward – Matelote, who had to let go of her sister’s hand to step forth. Combeferre and Courfeyrac went to join the little queue that had formed, and Marius came to stand at Grantaire’s side.

“It’s good, aye?” he said under his breath, sounding cheerful.

Courfeyrac’s mother had given him two weeks, Grantaire remembered suddenly. He had only two or three days left before that deadline, and then he would have to return to his own camp. And he would take Marius with him.

“Aye,” he muttered, despair weighing on him heavier than rocks. “Good.”


	11. Combeferre

Combeferre couldn’t stop touching his forehead, and his new Charter mark. He’d been surprisingly hesitant at the last second, nerves clenching his stomach as he watched Courfeyrac step forward to be baptised by the woman Grantaire and Marius had brought back with them. Seeing her cast magic on Fantine had made the whole thing startlingly real in a way it hadn’t been before.

It was all well and good to know that it wasn’t religious, and that it would give them a better chance of surviving in this world, but Combeferre couldn’t help feeling that he’d crossed some sort of line without being fully aware of what it was, or what the implications would be in the future. He’d thought he’d put all thought and hope of returning to Kalarime behind him – what was the point, in any case, when all his family were dead? But there was something about being baptised into the Charter that gave him the uneasy feeling that he had destroyed that possibility for himself forever.

He kept his worries to himself. The others seemed pleased enough. Saba was with Fantine, Cosette, and Bahorel, walking through the camp and talking to people, allaying their fears and reassuring them that baptism was not mandatory. Merely a local custom, something that would let them use the magic in this country to help themselves.

Combeferre wondered how many of them even believed that there was magic in this land. He wondered how many believed they were in a different world altogether. It didn’t seem possible, even now. 

Enjolras and Courfeyrac were talking seriously to Marius, who had proved to be more knowledgeable than Grantaire about the Charter and more than happy to talk about it. Combeferre could see what Courfeyrac loved about him. Marius gave an air of exuberance much like Courfeyrac’s own, and a sort of sweetness that was almost childlike. But there was a sharp mind behind his smile – he had an excellent command of Chellanian, and even knew some Azhdik. He explained things clearly and easily, and he seemed to know the answer to every question put to him.

Combeferre decided that his own questions could wait, and went to sit by Grantaire, who had harvested some type of plant on the way back from Ganel and was in the process of showing Matelote and Gibelotte how to best prepare it.

“The roots are poisonous if raw,” he warned in slow Chellanian. “They must be cooked.”

“How?” Gibelotte asked, turning the plant over in her hands. The roots were long and thin, not particularly appetising to Combeferre’s eyes, but then they couldn’t afford to be choosy. 

“Roasted is best,” Grantaire said. “Or cooked under the earth. As long as they are…mm, made hot, for long enough to cook them, they are safe. Boiling them is worst,” he added. “That makes them soft. Not nice.”

“Do they need to be skinned?”

“No.”

“We could do them on the grill,” Gibelotte murmured, rubbing her fingers along the roots. “They’re thin, shouldn’t take long to do them. What of the leaves? Good for salad?”

“Yes, and the flowers,” Grantaire nodded. “The big leaves become bitter, but the flowers are good. You can also make a paste of the leaves and stems and use it for flavour.”

“Are they poisonous raw too?”

“No.”

Gibelotte broke off two small leaves and passed one to Matelote before popping the other in her own mouth, chewing slowly. “Sharp, like rocket.”

“Not so peppery,” Matelote said, and finally noticed Combeferre. “All well?”

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” he said, gesturing for them to continue. There wasn’t much more they had to say to Grantaire, in any case, and when they turned to each other to continue their conversation about dinner in quicker Chellanian, Combeferre smiled at Grantaire and said in Ancelstierren, “Are you well?”

“Well enough.” Grantaire, now Combeferre could see him closely, looked and sounded miserable. “Have you been well while I’ve been gone? These two said you and Enjolras wanted to go to the woods but Madame Fantine said no.”

“She said it wasn’t safe without you,” Combeferre said. “Now you’re back, you will have to show us how to defend ourselves as you can.” 

Grantaire lifted his chin, indicating somewhere behind Combeferre. “You’d do better asking Marius. He knows the Charter better than I ever will.”

“I did not miss Marius as I missed you,” Combeferre said, and smiled when Grantaire gave him a startled, but certainly not displeased look. “Enjolras said he spoke to you the night before you left.”

“Aye. He…” Grantaire hesitated and glanced around. “How’ve you been doing for food, while I was gone?”

“Well enough,” Combeferre repeated his words from before, and lifted a shoulder. “It’s better when you can help us and give us extra food, but we survived.”

“I thought…” Grantaire looked around again. “I might…I could go to the woods now and lay snares, for tomorrow.”

Combeferre smiled. “That would be kind of you.”

“Would you…”

“I would appreciate the chance to walk with you,” Combeferre told him sincerely, and some of the misery in Grantaire’s face seemed to ease. “Fantine won’t mind if I’m with you.”

Grantaire nodded and pushed himself to his feet, then paused and looked down at Matelote and Gibelotte. “Excuse me,” he said, switching back to Chellanian. “Is there anything you’d like for tonight I can look for?”

Their eyes lit up, and they requested more dandelions, more mint, and more garlic and carrots if he could find them. Grantaire smiled and bowed to them, and then looked at Combeferre, who had the absurd urge to offer him his arm. 

If they’d both been Kalarimian, if they were back in Montleire, or Toulon. Maybe then.

But Grantaire was a Traveller, and they were in the Old Kingdom, and he’d changed the subject when Combeferre had brought up his and Enjolras’ overture.

So they walked out of the camp with a respectable distance between them, Combeferre exchanging a nod with Enjolras as they passed him. Enjolras would tell Fantine where they’d gone, and he’d looked relieved to see Combeferre and Grantaire together.

It had been like that when Combeferre had seen Enjolras go straight to Grantaire after his baptism. Water still dripping from his hair, no hesitation in his step. Combeferre had smiled to see it, his heart swelling in his chest. They’d looked right together, standing opposite and talking in low voices, Enjolras’ chestnut hair gleaming near Grantaire’s black curls.

They were waylaid several times on their way out by people who wanted to ask more about the Charter and baptism, and though Grantaire answered every question patiently, Combeferre could tell he was glad when they were past the last line of tents and beyond the point where people would follow.

“How is ‘well enough’?” Combeferre asked as they reached the trees and some weight seemed to lift from Grantaire’s shoulders. Though perhaps that was just Combeferre’s imagination, because the sigh Grantaire gave was heavier than a mountain.

“It is what it is,” he said quietly. “Well enough. I am alive, Marius is alive. Your Courfeyrac is alive. People are well.”

“But you are not.”

“I’ve no right to complain,” Grantaire muttered. “Marius is alive. Only…”

“Yes?” Combeferre prompted. 

“I didn’t know he was…him and Courfeyrac…”

Combeferre pushed down a swell of alarm. Surely Grantaire wasn’t hypocritical enough to recoil from his cousin when they shared the same liking for men. “You didn’t know they were together,” he said cautiously, and when Grantaire nodded but said nothing, he pushed on. “What you said before, about your people – do you dislike him now, for this?”

“No.” Grantaire shook his head. “Won’t lie and say thinking it en’t strange. I always thought he was normal. But it’s not that. He’s rooted.”

Ah. Combeferre frowned. “Courfeyrac did say they are very in love,” he said slowly, falling in behind Grantaire as they began to walk through thick greenery growing tall between the trees. It had been a carpet when Combeferre had first started accompanying Grantaire on his daily walks – now some of it came up to his chest. 

“Travellers shouldn’t love rachem,” Grantaire muttered. “It leads to problems like this. En’t so bad when rachem join us; even if they’ll never quite fit, their children will. But a Traveller can’t be rooted and still be a Traveller. You can’t walk the path if you’re part of the path.”

Combeferre’s heart hurt. “We are rachem as well, aren’t we? Southerlings?”

“Any who en’t Travellers,” Grantaire nodded, not looking back. 

Of course. 

Well.

It had only been an idea. A hope.

“I didn’t think he’d be rooted,” Grantaire went on, sounding despondent. “I thought…now he’s alive and I’ve found him, I thought we’d be together. We could’ve gotten a van and a horse. A dog, maybe. We could’ve…but he’s rooted.”

“Couldn’t you visit him?” Combeferre asked, making an effort to push his own feelings down. “If he isn’t moving around, at least you’ll always know where he is.”

“He won’t be a Traveller. I don’t know what I’ll do, next Moot.” Grantaire sighed and pulled his knife from his belt, pausing to kneel and cut some greenery Combeferre hadn’t noticed. “Tell them Marius is alive, but rooted? I’m as alone as before. He’ll never be able to come back, if he does this.” He stopped and sat back on his heels, looking up at Combeferre balefully. “He’s banishing himself, doing this. No more ink, no more travelling, no…no more achanada, our songs, our tongue, our…his family.” Grantaire covered his face with his hand for a second and shook his head, swallowing audibly.

Combeferre didn’t know if Grantaire would welcome an attempt at comfort, and watched in pained silence as he went back to cutting stems neatly, his face smoothed blank. “Will you still be allowed to see him?” Combeferre asked him.

“Not supposed to,” Grantaire muttered. “That sort of thing, trying to live in both worlds, it en’t encouraged.”

“That seems cruel.”

Grantaire shook his head, tying the bundle of stems with one of their number and sliding them into his bag before straightening and beginning to walk again. “He’ll be rachem to me, if he does this. I’ll not be allowed to speak my own tongue to my own cousin.”

“Who will stop you?” Combeferre asked, frowning, and Grantaire gave him an almost scandalised look over his shoulder.

“It en’t _done._ ”

“But who would even know?”

“If you kicked a cat,” Grantaire said sharply, “or killed one, who would know ‘cept you and the cat?”

Combeferre took a second to come up with a response to that. “But that’s _wrong._ I mean, to hurt another living creature, that’s always wrong.”

“Fine, what if you made an oath but only pretended to prick your palm?”

Combeferre couldn’t even imagine it. Such a thing was unthinkable; a despicable action. “But that’s tricking someone.”

“Even if they don’t know about it?”

“It’s…it isn’t right! It isn’t honourable.”

“Wouldn’t be honourable for me to speak my people’s tongue to rachem,” Grantaire said in a hard voice. “Some things’re kept sacred and secret for a reason. They’re _ours._ Same as our dances and songs and our ways of doing things. I can’t – I love my people. There’s flaws and faults, for certain, but there’s joy too! Marius won’t ever be able to come to the Moot again, ever. He’ll never be able to dance _ereven_ or taste _oipa_ again, ever, he’ll never be allowed to be tattooed again, he’ll never be able to marry or speak our language or…none of it. He’s cutting off his own legs. I’ll never walk with him again. He’ll never walk with me again. And he chose it.”

He chose Courfeyrac, Combeferre understood. Marius was choosing Courfeyrac over his people, and over Grantaire. 

“I suppose,” he said slowly, “it’s as if one of my family had lived and appeared now, and told me we could go home.”

“Would you?” Grantaire ducked under an overhanging branch and held back a sapling to allow Combeferre to follow without being smacked in the face.

“It would be impossible.” Combeferre almost touched Grantaire’s hand as he reached out to hold the sapling back. “Kalarime is too changed. My name is on a blacklist, so I would have to change my name and pray nobody ever identified me. I would not be able to find any of my old friends or classmates.” Combeferre sighed. “It would be the better choice for any of my family who lived to stay here with me. Our situations do not match perfectly.” 

“No.” 

“It is very difficult,” Combeferre said quietly, as they walked on, “to let go of the way things should have been.”

“What should your life’ve been?” Grantaire asked, pausing to survey their surroundings before crouching down to get a better look at the undergrowth.

Combeferre watched his bent head, the strong, sure curve of his body and his nimble hands, and sighed. He’d never really spoken about it to anyone, not since his family had died. He’d put those dreams away and locked them up in his head. It was too painful to think of the life he might have led. But Grantaire had asked, and Combeferre couldn’t help answering. 

“We should have changed the country. We were to be a political group putting pressure on those in power to change the systems of government. Better education for the poorer citizens. More teachers in the countryside. A more equal spread of wealth. The things we were asking for were not so much, we didn’t think. We would have stayed in Touléon to work on this. Me, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac.”

“All your lives?”

“Yes, perhaps. Though I always hoped that when things were better – because of course I believed we would be successful and things would be changed – we might move back to Montleire. I thought I might be a teacher. I would have liked that. Courfeyrac would have made a good teacher also, and Enjolras…perhaps a principal.” He smiled, remembering all the bickering they’d had about it, good-hearted and funny. “Though he is very close to Louis and Corin, so perhaps he would like other children as well. And he would have made a good councillor also.”

“You would have always lived apart from each other,” Grantaire said, frowning up at him, and Combeferre smiled.

“We would have lived with our families, yes. But that’s how it is, for us. I often slept at the Brideau house, or at the Lizot house, and Courfeyrac and Enjolras often slept at mine. Our families were close. And now that my family is gone…it is likely that Fantine will adopt me.” Combeferre smiled, the pain-edged joy swelling up in him every time he thought of it. “I will always be with Enjolras now.”

Grantaire nodded and stood up again. “Before I left with Marius,” he said, so quietly that Combeferre almost didn’t hear him over the sounds of their feet in the brush. “Enjolras told me…he said…he said you both…”

“We both care about you a great deal,” Combeferre said, wary now he’d heard Grantaire’s opinions on relationships between Travellers and non-Travellers. He didn’t know the right words or phrases in Ancelstierren for this, if there were any, and he hesitated. “In Chellanian, I would tell you we both wish to know you better. But that sounds different in this language, and it doesn’t have the same context.”

“Ah.” Grantaire paused and crouched again to set a snare in a fost Combeferre would never have seen. He could barely see it now, even as Grantaire’s movements clearly indicated its location. Grantaire stood and began to walk again, a little slower. “What’s the context a Kalarimian would know, then?” he asked uncertainly.

Combeferre considered it. “To ask to get to know someone is understood to be romantic. If I met someone new, and I asked if we could get to know each other, or I told him I wanted to know him better, he would understand that I meant that I wanted…well, to…” If only Grantaire had asked this before. It would have still been embarrassing, but certainly not this much. “To be with them,” he said, a little inadequately. “As a lover, not a platonic friend. If I wanted to be their friend,” he hurried on, “I would say…oh, I don’t know, I would say we should talk more about this subject or that, and I would say we should have dinner together, or that they should meet my friends, if they hadn’t already.”

Grantaire glanced over his shoulder at him, brows pinched, then looked forward again. “Enjolras told me three was a good number.”

“It is.”

Grantaire stopped, staring down at the grass and undergrowth below. “I don’t understand,” he admitted, and Combeferre picked his way carefully around to stand in front of him.

“What don’t you understand?” he asked cautiously. Occasionally Enjolras would overcorrect his typical bluntness into subtle implications the listener didn’t pick up on. Was that what had happened?

Grantaire frowned and looked away through the trees. “Why you’d want to know me.”

“Oh!” Combeferre almost took his hands, and barely stopped himself at the last second. “Well, how could we not? I think…I think Enjolras and myself were both drowning.” He gazed at Grantaire’s face, one he would recognise anywhere now, and would likely recognise if he lived another fifty years without seeing it. “I don’t think either of us realised how close to sinking we were. But you came out of nowhere and pulled us both up again, and you didn’t even seem to know you were doing it.”

Grantaire shook his head slowly. “I didn’t. I don’t…is this, is it normal, for your people? To have three together like that? I’ve seen…I know Louison has her girl from the Brossard family, and I know she’s stepping out with a man at the same time as she’s seeing Louison, but this en’t that, is it?”

Combeferre couldn’t tell from the tone of his voice whether he was put off or curious or anything, so swallowed his worries and shook his head. “It is more usual that we would be interested in knowing different people as well as each other, yes. But it happens.” He thought of bringing up the budding relationship that was developing between Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, but that cut too close to airing people’s business behind their back for his comfort.

Grantaire looked at the ground and passed a hand over his face. “I don’t know why I’m asking,” he muttered. “I can’t. I know I can’t. I’m not Marius. I can’t give my people up so easy, even without my family among them.”

“But we aren’t asking you to,” Combeferre said, surprised, and Grantaire’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. They turned confused and accusing after a moment – he even took a step back.

“But you said – you said you wanted…”

“We want you,” Combeferre agreed, realising what Grantaire meant. “But as you are. You don’t need to stay for us or change for us. We love you already.” He swallowed. “We love you.”

Grantaire stared at him, lips parted. “I…but I can’t be with you. I can’t be rooted, I can’t –”

“If that means you cannot love us back, that is well. Not _well,_ ” Combeferre amended quickly. “You understand. But you don’t need to be rooted for us to love you.”

“I couldn’t be…you’d, I’d be a poor match for you, either of you.”

“Is it that you prefer Enjolras?” Combeferre asked, bracing himself. “Because I don’t mind –”

“No!” Grantaire held his hands up, shaking his head emphatically. “You’re both, I love…” He swallowed and dropped his hands, clenching and unclenching them at his sides. “I’m a poor match,” he said plaintively. “If I can’t stay, what good am I? Why care for someone who’s not going to stay?”

“Because we would love you when you were there, and love you while you were gone.” Combeferre took half a step forward, cautious as if Grantaire were a wild animal. “Do you love a tree only when it bears fruit? We don’t love you only for your uses. We love you for who you are.”

“Both of you?” Grantaire asked, forehead wrinkled, and Combeferre moved forward again, just as slow.

“Both of us.”

Grantaire’s eyes dropped to Combeferre’s lips, and his stomach jumped even as Grantaire wrenched his gaze up again and swallowed. “Even if I didn’t stay?”

“Even then.”

“Even if I only saw you a handful of times a year?” Grantaire pressed, tense. “Even if I was only ever passing through?”

“We will always be happy to see you. And we can keep each other company in the meantime.”

“You’d not try to root me down?”

Combeferre shook his head. “Never.” So strange, to persuade a man he loved him by insisting he wouldn’t hold onto him. Combeferre didn’t think he’d ever read or heard a story like that. “Our love is free,” he said softly. “You don’t have to pay a price or be anything but who you already are. We fell in love with you as you are.”

“You’ll fall out of it when I leave,” Grantaire whispered, and Combeferre shook his head, closing the distance between them with a final half-step and slowly lifting his hands to Grantaire’s arms. He smoothed them up and rested them on the joins of Grantaire’s neck and shoulders, one thumb sliding up to stroke against the bare skin of Grantaire’s neck. It made Grantaire breathe out unsteadily, and Combeferre leaned forward a little more to duck his head and press their foreheads together.

“I don’t think we will,” he whispered. “But for my part, I would rather prove it to you in action.”

It was Grantaire though, who tipped his head up and kissed him first. His hands appeared on Combeferre’s waist, twisting into his shirt for a moment before Combeferre curled a hand around the back of his neck and kissed him back. Grantaire made a soft, low sound and slid both arms around Combeferre to hold him close, a little gasp brushing Combeferre’s lips when he broke their kiss for a moment to change the angle and dipped in again.

He cradled Grantaire’s face in his hands and opened his mouth when Grantaire’s tongue urged him to, both of them clutching each other a little, both of them making quiet, breathless noises against each other’s lips. Combeferre had kissed few people in his life who weren’t Enjolras, but none so good as Grantaire. None he had felt this hunger for, certainly. None who made his knees weak and his head spin.

Grantaire moaned when Combeferre slid one hand into his hair and curled his hand to hold as much as he could, his wet mouth opening against Combeferre’s and his teeth grazing Combeferre’s lower lip as he went up onto his tiptoes and steadied himself against Combeferre’s body as he pressed closer. His arms were tight around Combeferre’s back, his hands hot over the thin material of Combeferre’s shirt, and Combeferre chased him blindly for a second when Grantaire broke the kiss.

“Wait,” he breathed, and Combeferre’s mouth found the corner of his lips and paused, swallowing raggedly. “Wait, is this…would Enjolras, would he be alright with this?”

Combeferre laughed and hugged Grantaire tightly. “Yes. As I would be if you did anything with him alone.”

“I kissed him,” Grantaire confessed. “Here, in the woods. Afore I went away to fetch the Priest.”

“He told me,” Combeferre said. He’d hoped for it to be reassuring, and he sighed in relief when it worked, Grantaire relaxing against him. 

“You didn’t mind?”

“How could I?” Combeferre pulled back enough for Grantaire to see his grin. “I can hardly fault either of your tastes. It would be hypocritical and selfish of me to wish for one or other of you all to myself.” Grantaire ducked his head with a grin, and Combeferre laughed as he saw pink spreading up the side of his neck. “You blush?”

“No.” Grantaire looked up again, a smile Combeferre had never seen on him before pulling at his lips. He was entirely lovely, crooked and sweet, and Combeferre kissed him again. Grantaire hummed, dragging him into it, and breathed against Combeferre’s mouth when they parted, “You swear he’d not mind?”

“He’d only wish he could have seen us,” Combeferre smiled, a little wicked. “I wished I could have seen you kiss him. It sounded like a very good kiss.”

“You talked about it?” Grantaire arched against him slightly, and Combeferre kissed him again, a gentler tease.

“Of course,” he murmured. “I wanted to hear all about it. And we both wanted to tell each other how we’d been feeling about you.”

Grantaire made a shivery little sound. “I thought about you too,” he admitted. “Both of you, together.”

Combeferre thrilled to hear it, and kissed him again, making a quiet sound of encouragement when Grantaire untucked his shirt and slid his hands up underneath. Hot on the skin of Combeferre’s back, strong enough to pull Combeferre tight against him until there wasn’t a hair of space between them.

“Do you want to wait until Enjolras is with us too?” Combeferre asked, nosing at the skin of Grantaire’s neck, the stubble already coming up there. 

“You’re sure he’d not mind?” Grantaire whispered, and Combeferre kissed his neck, biting a little when it made Grantaire groan. 

“He’d not mind.”

“Then – here?”

“If you wish it.” Combeferre trailed a line of kisses to Grantaire’s mouth and smiled when Grantaire kissed him hungrily.

They shuffled backwards until Grantaire’s back was pressed to a tree, and he gazed at Combeferre with an open mouth and dark eyes as Combeferre untucked his shirt. He’d not allowed himself to think much on what Grantaire would be like as a lover, not wanting to tempt himself beyond what was possible. Even when he and Enjolras had been speculating, Combeferre had reigned his imagination in. 

Grantaire reached back and held onto the tree with one hand, his other stroking slowly through Combeferre’s hair. So careful, like he didn’t want to pull even by accident. He pulled Combeferre in with a light tug at the back of his neck and kissed him, deep and sweet. He was more practiced at it than Combeferre would have expected, but he supposed just because being with men wasn’t allowed for Travellers didn’t mean Grantaire had never done it.

In fact, it was clear he knew what he was doing. 

Hands down each other’s trousers, gasping into each other’s mouths, they brought each other off quickly, too eager to wait or slow down. Afterwards, Grantaire sank down against the trunk of the tree and pulled Combeferre with him, both of them grinning as they kissed each other.

“I still don’t know what I’ll do,” Grantaire admitted after a while, his head resting on Combeferre’s shoulder, their hands entwined. 

“Do you need to decide now?” Combeferre rubbed his thumb along a crease in Grantaire’s palm. “Do you want to leave immediately?”

“No. I always said I’d stay with you till you were settled.”

Combeferre smiled and turned to press a kiss into Grantaire’s hair. “There’s time then.”

They kept turning to smile at each other after they got up and Grantaire started setting snares and cutting greens again, hurrying a little to make up for the time they’d lost. When they reached the edge of the trees, Enjolras was waiting for them. He was lying in the grass, and sat up when he heard them coming, greeting them with a smile, and raising his eyebrows a moment later.

He knew what Combeferre looked like after he’d had sex, after all.

He didn’t stop smiling as he pushed himself to his feet though, and closed the distance between them with broad strides. “I missed you,” he said in Chellanian, with the plural _you_. It made Grantaire’s smile turn crooked, a little shy.

“I missed you as well,” he said in slow Chellanian, and when Enjolras reached out for him, Grantaire took his hand and looked down at their twined fingers. Enjolras took Combeferre’s hand in his free one as soon as he was close enough, and leaned in for a brief kiss. Combeferre wondered if Grantaire could read the tiny line of tension in his brow that was the only hint of his nerves.

But it was all well. Grantaire swayed closer as they parted, and Enjolras turned to him next with a barely raised eyebrow as a question. Grantaire answered by leaning forward for a kiss of his own, and Combeferre’s breath caught to see them, a smile spreading across his face helplessly. He slid an arm around Grantaire’s waist and grinned when Grantaire turned to kiss him next. 

“You talked then?” Enjolras asked in Ancelstierren, switching back for Grantaire’s sake, Combeferre assumed.

“Yes.” Combeferre pressed a small kiss to Grantaire’s hairline. 

“Combeferre said you both…well.” Grantaire snorted and pulled Enjolras a little closer. “S’pose it’s obvious he wasn’t wrong, about you both wanting me. Your heads must be touched.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and bumped his forehead gently against Grantaire’s. “He was not wrong. And you are well with this?”

“So long as…” Grantaire glanced nervously at Combeferre. “Combeferre said you’d not try to root me, or make me choose you over my people. Like Courfeyrac and Marius.”

“Courfeyrac has forced no choice,” Enjolras said immediately, a little defensive. “He would never do that.”

“Marius has chosen, either way.” Grantaire gave him a guarded look. “Combeferre said you’d not ask that of me.”

Enjolras frowned. “What is the choice? Why must you choose?”

“By staying with Courfeyrac, Marius is giving up his place with his people,” Combeferre explained. “He can never go back to them, if he stays with Courfeyrac. They do not approve of love between men.”

“En’t just that,” Grantaire said quietly. “A Traveller _travels_. There’s traditions with that, things only for our people. Places we go and things we do. Marius…he’ll not be doing those things if he’s rooted. He doesn’t…he won’t be one of us, anymore.”

Enjolras nodded. “You do not wish to give these things up, so you will not stay with us when we settle.”

“Aye,” Grantaire nodded unhappily. 

“You will leave us,” Enjolras said slowly, and waited for Grantaire’s nod. “Will you come back?”

Grantaire swallowed, and Combeferre squeezed his waist reassuringly. “If you wish it,” he said, almost a whisper, and Enjolras relaxed, letting go of Grantaire’s hand to cup his face and draw him into a kiss.

“That is all we wish,” he murmured against Grantaire’s lips, and Grantaire gave a wobbly smile, glancing sideways to Combeferre as well, obviously relieved.

“I told you,” Combeferre said, kissing his temple. “We love you.”

Grantaire closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around both of them, tucking his head against Combeferre’s shoulder. Combeferre’s arm crossed Enjolras’ around Grantaire’s back, and he reached round to squeeze Enjolras’ upper arm, smiling into Grantaire’s hair.

“Seems odd to me,” Grantaire admitted as they walked back, side by side as the trees thinned. “I’d’ve thought most folk’d…well, in all the stories and tellings I’ve heard, rachem always either want to run away with us, or for us to stay with them, fixed like a tree.”

Enjolras shrugged. “It is not expected for lovers to remain with each other, for us. A person belongs to their family, not to their lover. I would never have expected Combeferre to perhaps live with me, as he might do when we move further north to wherever these houses are to be built. Your family is your people – it is like for those who had lovers in Challes,” he added, looking at Combeferre.

“It was the town nearest to us,” Combeferre explained to Grantaire. “A journey of half a day on foot. They had a market and festival twice a year many of us would go to.”

“But in winter, it was almost impossible to get there through all the snow,” Enjolras said. “So those with lovers in Challes would not see them for a few months. It is normal.” 

Combeferre wouldn’t have thought of using the distance between Montleire and Challes as an example, but it clearly soothed Grantaire. And it was true. He and Enjolras had always been lucky in their proximity to each other, and with the friendship between their families. Living together in Touléon had been very strange at first, but exciting too, and Combeferre had enjoyed it even as he’d missed living at home with his family.

Grantaire walked between them as they got back to the camp, walking single file between the tents. He went to Matelote and Gibelotte as soon as they got back and gave them the greens he’d cut, then went to sit next to Marius, drawing him a little bit away from Combeferre and speaking in rapid, quiet Ancelstierren. Combeferre sat with Enjolras across the circle from them, the two of them leaning against each other.

“You think this will work?” Enjolras whispered in Chellanian. “What if he never comes back to us?”

“Do you mean what happens if he decides he doesn’t love us anymore? Or what happens if he’s hurt or killed on the road?”

Enjolras gripped Combeferre’s wrist very tightly. “Don’t.”

Combeferre kissed his shoulder. “Sorry.” He waited though, and Enjolras sighed.

“The first, I suppose. We could agree on a contingency plan for the second. If we don’t hear from him in a certain amount of time, where to go to look for a message, who to ask, that sort of thing.”

“If the first, we could ask him to send a letter, if he doesn’t want to see us in person.” Combeferre looked over at Grantaire and caught him and Marius looking over at them. Combeferre smiled reflexively, and Grantaire blinked, then smiled back. Marius looked pleased as punch, and he and Grantaire started whispering again.

“I think it’ll work.” Combeferre nosed a kiss into Enjolras’ hair. “I think he’ll be gone for weeks or even months at a time, but remember the first semester when you were in Montleire and Courfeyrac and I were in Touléon without you?”

Enjolras huffed quietly, and Combeferre smiled. “At least we could write letters. How do you send letters to someone who doesn’t have an address?”

“We’ll figure it out. Hey – maybe there’s some spell for it,” Combeferre said, the idea just occurring to him. “And if there isn’t, maybe we could invent one.”

Enjolras laughed, so bright that several people turned their heads, startled by the unfamiliar sound. He didn’t even seem to notice, grinning at Combeferre. “We’ve had these marks for a matter of hours and you’re already a wizard?” he teased. “Making up spells?”

“Well why not?” Combeferre grinned back. “Someone must have invented the spells Grantaire and Marius use. Why couldn’t more spells be made?”

“I think it’s like a language though.” Enjolras rubbed two fingers over the mark on his forehead, and Combeferre saw it glow briefly. “You wouldn’t be able to create a new word in Ancelstierren very easily. It would need to make sense in the context of the language of its creation.”

“I could learn.” Combeferre smiled, and then broke into a quiet laugh and found Enjolras’ hand to squeeze it. “I haven’t felt like this since Touléon. Something exciting to study.”

Enjolras squeezed back. “You can be our Southerling Charter wizard. Charter mage, whatever they call it.”

Combeferre smiled and pressed his forehead to Enjolras’ temple. “I look forward to it.” He knew Enjolras would understand the importance of that – of looking forward to anything, after all they’d been through.

After they’d eaten that evening, Grantaire came a little hesitantly to sit with them, and smiled helplessly when they folded him between them, making space for him. He was still tense, his spine straight as a rod, and while Enjolras glared at anyone who looked like they might say anything, Combeferre whispered, “Are you well?”

“I’ve never done this before,” Grantaire whispered back. “In front of other people.”

It still tripped Combeferre up to think of not being allowed to express his affections to Enjolras – or any man – in public. To imagine keeping such a thing hidden, and not even for modesty’s sake, but for some sort of twisted idea of it not being natural, was bizarre. “Well.” He slid his arm behind Grantaire’s back and leaned into him gently. “You can be easy with us. There’s none here who will be anything but happy. And perhaps smug, if they are being impolite.”

Grantaire huffed a small laugh, and Enjolras looked round, a smile tugging at the corners of his own lips. “You are well?”

“Aye.” Grantaire’s smile bloomed across his whole face, and he only hesitated a moment before kissing the corner of Enjolras’ mouth. “I’m well.”

One Year Later

The metal was warm, but not hot to the touch, and Combeferre tried to focus on what Marius was saying.

“– really more like a breath than a drawing, for me anyway. I breathe it out, and let it settle into the setting on its own, not forcing it so much.”

“I’ve been drawing it straight on,” Feuilly said, standing on Combeferre’s other side and narrowing his eyes at the boiler. It was dark in the cellar under the house, even with the marks for light they’d put on the beams above them. “Is that wrong?”

Marius shrugged a shoulder. “Depends on what works for you. My pa, he’d always breathe the marks out like I do, but my aunts, they’d be firmer with it. Charter’s not got feelings, they’d always say, but I like to treat it nice, seeing as it hurts no one.”

Combeferre bit back a smile. “Show us your way then.”

Marius nodded and stood a little taller, grinding his heels into the hard-packed dirt under his feet. “Yan-ip-kella-narnin,” he said softly, almost melodic, and drew the marks in the air just above the metal of the boiler. They appeared on the metal and glowed, sinking into it and disappearing as Marius finished the incantation on a sigh. 

Combeferre and Feuilly both reached out to touch it. Already, it felt like it was getting hotter.

“We’ll try that next time,” Feuilly decided, nodding in approval. “Thanks, Marius.”

“Any time.” Marius smiled brightly and waited for them to lead the way back up.

The bathhouse was newly built, still smelling of fresh wood inside. They’d built it to the designs of a quiet, austere pemme called Simplice, who had been a priest of Matré-Belen in her village. It had been close to Iznenia, and she had worked at a bathhouse built in the Iznenian style, designed to serve all. Matré-Belen had once been prayed to by an ugly, filthy street-sleeper, one of the stories went, and they had gone to see for themself what could be done. Displeased to see their own priests turning the street-sleeper away, they had ordered the priests to bathe any who came and asked for it.

Simplice had left Kalarime with five of her order, fleeing after their bathhouse had been destroyed and most of their order killed. She was the only one left, but she was determined to uphold the legacy she’d been entrusted. She had plenty of support too – she was honest to a fault, and gave away all she had to her neighbours. And with no natural hot springs or easily-built way to heat large quantities of water to be piped to every house and compound, a bathhouse was something plenty of people were happy to see built.

Simplice had taken Feuilly under her wing, as well as a number of other people who were on their own. The bathhouse was nearly perfect, but there were still too few baptised in the Charter who also knew and could produce the marks needed to keep the boilers hot. Magic was a lot more taxing than Combeferre had expected. Spells that Marius managed with apparent ease came to Combeferre only after long weeks of practice and effort, and even then they didn’t work every time.

Marius assured him it was normal. He could manage the easier marks well enough – it was when they needed to be combined that he had trouble.

Combeferre left Feuilly at the bathhouse and walked with Marius back towards their respective compounds, near the edge of the village they’d named Clarac. It was still early evening, the sun still up and the air still warm, everywhere buzzing with insects. They met Musichetta coming back from the well, two buckets on either end of the yoke over her shoulders. “Boilers hot again?” she asked, falling into step beside him.

“Thanks to Marius,” Combeferre nodded. “I’ll get it though.”

“You’re getting better every time,” Marius agreed kindly, and Combeferre snorted.

“Marius, what would Simplice say? Lies of sweetness are just as evil in Bel’s eyes as lies of wickedness.”

Marius pursed his lips like he was sucking a lemon, and Musichetta laughed, letting go of her yoke for a second to push at his shoulder. “Ignore him, Marius. And thank you for not offering to take my buckets.”

If anything, that just made Marius look even more conflicted, and Combeferre smiled. Differences in Traveller courtesy and Kalarimian courtesy still tripped Marius up sometimes, even after so long spent with Southerlings. 

Louis was waiting on the fence that kept the Lizots’ goats from destroying everything around them, and Combeferre held his breath as he watched the boy walk on the top plank, arms outstretched and bare toes curling around the wood with each step. “I hate it when he does that,” he muttered.

“I’m more worried about the goats,” Marius whispered. “He’d crush one if he fell on them now, he’s so big.”

Combeferre snorted, and lifted a hand in greeting that turned into a wince and a bitten-off exclamation of alarm when Louis lifted both hands into the air and somersaulted off the top rail, going into a forward roll when he hit the ground and springing up onto his feet as he came out of it.

“Ohhhh I hate it so much when he does that,” Combeferre said under his breath, and turned it into a smile as Louis came over. “Watching for us?”

The boy nodded and jerked his chin back towards the Brideau compound. “You’d both oughta come.”

“Is everything alright?” Marius asked, frowning, but Louis was already running back up the lane.

“I suppose you’d better come then,” Combeferre said, shrugging. “A song says it’s someone wanting you to do a spell for them.”

Marius’ expression cleared and he laughed. “Probably.”

But when they got to the house, there was a horse tied to the post that stood at the top of the walk that led to the front door, neatly planted vegetable gardens either side. All the plants were, thankfully, far enough away that the horse couldn’t get at them.

Marius sucked in a gasp that told Combeferre what was happening even before he spoke. “Grantaire’s here!”

“How do you know?” Combeferre asked, hurrying after Marius down the path to the front door. 

“Finonn clan tokens! Those metal charms in the horse’s mane!” 

The front door was already standing open, and those inside clearly heard their voices. A familiar shape appeared in the doorway, and Combeferre laughed as Grantaire ran out and into Marius’ arms, the two of them grinning wide. Grantaire looked much the same as he had the last time they’d seen him, apart from his hair, which was down to his shoulders and half pulled back to keep it out of his face.

Marius stepped aside and Combeferre moved in to wrap Grantaire up in his arms tightly, breathing him in and speaking in Kingdom. “Welcome back.”

Enjolras came out of the doorway, smiling, and Combeferre let go of Grantaire with one arm to beckon him in.

“Good to be back,” Grantaire mumbled into Combeferre’s shoulder, and turned to let Enjolras in as well. “I missed you both.”

“We missed you.” Combeferre kissed his hair. “Stay a while.”

“Think I will.” Grantaire tilted his head up to kiss him properly, and then turned to kiss Enjolras while Combeferre held them both and watched, beaming. “I brought you gifts,” he murmured, looking back up at Combeferre with a smile that was almost sly. “Come and see.”

All the Brideaus were there, plus Courfeyrac and his sister Calliste, who were so alike in appearance they could have been twins. Madame Boissy and Irma lived there as well, since the true Brideaus numbered fewer than ten, which was hardly enough to have a real home feel full. When the Boissys had more than two generations to them, they might leave to live in a house of their own, but Combeferre was certain Madame Boissy at least would live the rest of her life with them. 

Grantaire stood at the end of the kitchen table and heaved a saddle bag up onto the surface, while Combeferre and Enjolras sat to his left. “For the matriarch,” he said, and pulled a small, dark glass jar out and handed it over. “Honey from the Great Forest.”

Fantine took the jar with a smile. “Thank you deeply, monsieur.”

“For whoever wants them.” Grantaire drew out a box a handspan wide. “A lot of seeds. I labelled them best I could, but a few of ‘em might be surprises.” He laughed at Gallia’s outstretched hands and passed the box to her. “Knew you’d find a use for them. For everyone, these.” And out of his bag came a small net sack with several fat, gleaming lemons.

There was a murmur of delight, and Cosette reached over to take them. “Thank you! Lemons and honey, you’re a blessing!”

Grantaire grinned, cheeks pink, and sat down. “For you two,” he said, lowering his voice a little and turning to Combeferre and Enjolras. “And you, really,” he added, glancing at Marius, “seeing as you’ll make the best use of it, and you’re everyone’s teacher.” He reached into his saddle bag and drew out a small, battered book.

“Is it a spell book?” Louis piped up, and Enjolras took it with a smile, opening it and looking at the many, many marks and their names and uses inscribed inside. 

“It certainly looks like it.”

“And I know you’ll share these too, but I thought of you when I got them,” Grantaire said, giving Combeferre a particularly soft look. He brought another net sack out of his bag, and this one was full of oranges.

Combeferre took them when Grantaire passed them to him, momentarily speechless. He’d told Grantaire once, ages ago, he was sure, that oranges had been his favourite fruit from home. “I hardly remember what they taste like,” he managed to say, embarrassed to hear how choked he sounded.

Grantaire laughed and reached over to squeeze his arm. “Well I’ve never tried one, so you’ll have to show me how you eat it.”

Combeferre took one out of the net sack and beckoned Courfeyrac over, still a little teary. “Could you still peel it in one strip, do you think?”

“Give me a knife, and we’ll see!” Courfeyrac perched on the edge of the table and took the small knife Cosette passed him. He hadn’t lost his touch – the peel spiralled away from the fruit as he turned it deftly in his hand, the glorious smell drawing everyone closer in to inhale it.

“We can preserve the peels,” Irma murmured, closing her eyes to savour it. “Or dry them, maybe.”

“We can try both,” Fantine nodded.

They divided the orange into quarters, then eighths. Combeferre took one slice and bit off a third, his breath catching at the burst of flavour, the tart sweetness so familiar and so reminiscent of home that it brought tears to his eyes all over again. He passed it to Enjolras, who bit off half of what was left, and then took Grantaire by the chin and placed the remainder in his mouth, smiling.

Grantaire’s eyes widened as he chewed, and he smiled as well, laughing when Combeferre sucked the juice from his own fingers and sighed. “I’ll bring more, next time,” he promised, and laughed when Enjolras took his chin again and pulled him in for a kiss. He turned to Combeferre next, eyes sparkling, and Combeferre kissed him sweetly, tasting orange on his lips.


End file.
